


Quarantined

by endoftheziam



Category: Drarry - Fandom, Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Character Turned Into Vampire, Corona Virus - Freeform, Dean and Ginny, Disease, Draco and Hermione as partners in crime, DracoxHarry - Freeform, Drarry, Drarry slash - Freeform, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, I know, I've seen canon and it's not cute enough, JK rowling? Idk her, Las Vegas, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Canon, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Romione being cute and goals, Star Wars - Freeform, Vampire Draco Malfoy, Vampire! Draco, and finally I have a random edgy hot guy, and trans women are women, draco and hermione would be a ruthless team up, drarry smut, han/leia - Freeform, harry potter in las vegas, harryxdraco - Freeform, hermione granger - Freeform, hermione granger is the only member of the golden trio that matters, if I'm sad ur all going down with me, jk rowling - Freeform, jkr can also kiss my ass, my apologies, my thanks to george lucas, one of whom is a witcher reference, quarantine au, romione, romione are the only straights I trust, ron weasley - Freeform, ron weasley is underrated, sad but at least they bone, some original characters - Freeform, sorry - Freeform, stepehenie meyer can kiss my ass, the other is a brokeback mountain reference even though i've never seen it, twilight - Freeform, way too many satirical twilight references, you are my own personal brand of heroin should be on a flag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23225812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endoftheziam/pseuds/endoftheziam
Summary: It's the seventh year of Hogwarts for Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, and everyone else who survived the Second War with Voldemort. Everyone's gearing up for spring break, when a curious disease called Corona Virus starts spreading through the magical and muggle communities.Stuck in Hogwarts for spring break, Draco and Harry suddenly find themselves facing the most harrowing enemy of all: Quarantine. Together.Harry just wants to heal from the trauma he suffered during the war with Voldemort, to come to terms with the guilt and distance he has built between himself and everyone else.For Draco, quarantine means staying away from his sickly mother, and being unable to interact with a large human population. which is a serious problem if you're an extrovert, or a vampire...With only each other to focus on, Harry and Draco have never hated each other more. They hate each other so much, they might finally figure out that they're actually in love...Disclaimer: I realize this is a sensitive subject, so please, feel free to not read this if you think it's too upsetting or timely. I'm just trying to find a way to keep occupied during quarantine, and I thought it might be fun..
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 52
Kudos: 403





	1. Thursday, the night before Spring Break

**HARRY**

“I just feel so _horrible_ ,” Draco said, making sure his voice carried so that Harry, Ron and Hermione could hear it all the way across the Great Hall, “For the students who have to stay here over spring break because they’re not _wanted_ at home.”

“Like anyone would want to go to your home, Malfoy,” Harry muttered. “No one wants to watch your father drink mimosas and impulse-buy expensive art.”

Ron snorted into his pudding, but Hermione pulled a face. “Why do you let Malfoy get to you, Harry? It’s not like he’s coming up with anything new.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Harry protested, his voice at a normal volume now. “Voldemort’s dead, we’re all back at Hogwarts, and he’s still on. The same. _Bullshit_.”

“You always have to have a problem with Malfoy.”

Harry looked at her incredulously. “He tried to kill all of us! Several times!”

“And he also saved your life!” Hermione’s left hand twitched, and Harry knew she was thinking of the _Mudblood_ scar carved into her skin, one which no amount of potions and elixirs had ever managed to remove entirely. “Maybe it’s time to put all this aside.”

“Fat chance, Hermione,” Ron mumbled around a mouthful of kippers. “Malfoy’s a whiny little bitch, and always has been.” He took a massive swallow and continued. “I wouldn’t put it past him to finish his master’s little mission posthumously.”

“I’m shocked you know what posthumous means, though since you’re using it incorrectly, it really can’t be helped.” Hermione said nastily.

“Can the two of you stop bickering? I’d like some peace and quiet.” Harry glared down at his pancakes. A part of him looked forward to spending the break alone, but the other part wanted to listen to Ron and Hermione bicker some more.

It would be so lonely without them. He wasn’t sure he could handle all that silence.

Ron and his family were doing a retreat, a personal trip to talk about ‘family matters.’

Harry knew it was about Fred’s death, reconciling with Percy, trying to heal from all of the wounds that were still fresh after Voldemort’s defeat, even though it had been nearly a year. But it still stung when Ron had awkwardly said he wasn’t invited—the Weasleys had always considered Harry family before, what was so different now?

“It’s just that Mum—she doesn’t want you to feel guilty. And I know you will.”

“Well-it was for me that Fred died.”

“No it wasn’t. It was for all of us. For a better future.” Ron repeated the words his therapist had taught him with the same monotone voice Harry had come to recognize.

Harry’s therapist had told him that it would take time for his friends to fully forgive him. That even though they knew it wasn’t his fault, the link between him and their dead family members would remain. It was an invisible line, tethering him to their loved ones. For a while, all they’d see was the death he’d brought.

“It’s not that they think it’s your fault, or they blame you.” She said. “It’s just that grief can be irrational.”

“I don’t blame them,” Harry colored in the picture they’d given him, keeping his eyes down. “I _am_ responsible.” 

“The survivor’s guilt is normal, too. But there is no way of knowing if your choices would have kept more or less people alive. You defeated Voldemort in the end, and the Wizarding World is at peace. That is what matters.”

So Harry hadn’t protested when Ron had explained the Weasleys’ plans. He hadn’t pushed Ginny when she’d said she needed time, time to be by herself and work through the trauma she’d experience fighting the Death Eaters at Hogwarts.

He hadn’t even looked disappointed when, after Hermione had heard that Ron was going off with his family, she’d tentatively stated that she wanted a holiday away with her parents as well. “We always wanted to go to Italy as a family,” she’d said, “We’ve never been. Now seems like a good time, since—”

“They aren’t Obliviated in Australia for their own protection,” Harry said harshly.

When would he stop feeling the cost of this war? When would he stop seeing all the lives he had interrupted, all the families he had torn apart?

_Voldemort tore them apart._ He reminded himself. _I just stopped him._

But sometimes he wondered what might have gone differently that day on the Hogwarts Express, if Ron hadn’t sat in his compartment. What might have changed, had he taken Draco’s hand? Would he still have so many people to burden? Would he have been better off with the Dursleys, who’d never have done a thing for him?

Would Fred still be alive?

Hermione’s phone dinged, and she swiped across to check it. “Corona virus has spread to the UK” she said aloud. “Well, we already knew that.”

“Surely wizards have a cure for this sort of thing,” Harry had heard about the virus from Hermione, but most of the students sneered at Muggle technology, and were woefully uninformed on non-Wizarding current events. Only the Muggleborns really kept in touch, but Harry got the impression that their reiteration of Muggle News hardly earned them social points.

Even though Voldemort’s followers were imprisoned or dead, and Shacklebolt had announced a new era of resistance to the prejudices of the old regime, the ideas Voldemort had helped to perpetuate still remained in some capacity.

“From what I understand, most wizards are naturally immune to Muggle diseases. But these travel advisories will be particularly inconvenient.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “I wonder if I could cast some sort of protective charm on Mum and Dad,” she mused. “Perhaps the library…”

“It’s probably not that big of a deal,” Ron said. “The Muggles will find a solution eventually. It won’t affect _us.”_

Harry looked down the table to a group of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor first-years. They were typing away frantically on their phones, looking anxious. One of them coughed, and the others all jumped, looking around nervously.

Harry felt a strange sense of foreboding curdle in his stomach.

“Potter!”

Harry knew that voice anywhere, even though he wished he didn’t. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

“My mum wants to know if you’d come home for Spring Break. A chance to toast the hero and all. We know you’re _all alone_ for the holiday.” He bit off the end of the sentence, and Harry didn’t doubt that he was mocking him. The way Malfoy told the story of that final duel, Harry had essentially gotten in on pure luck.

He was somewhat right, but that didn’t stop him from being infuriating.

“Why? Is she tired of having a coward for a son?” Harry rose to his feet, clenching his fists at his sides. “Does she want to trade you for a son who doesn’t run away at the first sign of a fight?”

“How dare you—"

“Potter. Malfoy. My office. Now.” McGonagall appeared at their sides, her hair swept into its usual austere bun.

“Professor, we weren’t—“Malfoy began.

“I would rather neither of you waste my time with dishonesty. I have known the two of you far too long to not know a duel when I see one. My office. _Now.”_

***

McGonagall’s office, the Headmistress’s Office, always left Harry with a pang of repressed memory. The late nights ensconced here with Dumbledore, sifting through clues for the Horcruxes. The night Voldemort had returned, and he’d told the details of the encounter to Dumbledore in excruciating detail…the attack on Mr. Weasley that Harry had thought was his doing, only to learn later that Voldemort had seen it as an opportunity to manipulate him…when he’d thrown all the instruments across the room after Sirius’ death, doing whatever he could to quiet the roaring inside of him…

McGonagall had shared the password with him (“Fawkes”) at the beginning of the year, but he wasn’t interested in reliving all of those memories. He just wanted to have a normal year at Hogwarts, for once. He just wanted to be a first year again, where his biggest problems were Snape giving him bad marks on his Potions exam and winning the next Quidditch match.

But there was no going back.

And the office did have small changes. There was the portrait of Dumbledore, snoozing delicately in a high-backed chair. The Order of Merlin, First Class, which Minister Shacklebolt had bestowed upon McGonagall for her courage at the Battle of Hogwarts (McGonagall never polished it; she had been so disgusted with the Ministry’s initial response to Voldemort’s return that Kingsley had to practically beg her to accept it in the first place), the Sword of Gryffindor in its crystal case, and a few portraits of cats that gamboled about good-naturedly, hunting various squirrels and birds through the paintings, the antithesis of the sicky sweet kittens that had adorned Umbridge’s office.

McGonagall conjured two severe-looking, high backed chairs. “Sit.”

Harry and Malfoy sat, neither looking at the other.

“The war is over.” McGonagall said.

“No thanks to him,” Harry muttered.

Draco opened his mouth furiously, but McGonagall interrupted him. “Mr. Malfoy’s testimony put a good many of his associates in prison. And I seem to recall that he played a vital role in your defeat of Voldemort.”

Harry shrugged. Malfoy was an opportunistic weasel, and always had been. McGonagall was mad if she didn’t know that.

“You are both poised to be leaders of the community, following your graduation from this school. Potter, you have already expressed your ambition to become an Auror. And Malfoy, Professor Slughorn tells me that you have a talent for politics.”

_For wheedling his slimy way out of his own messes,_ Harry thought. No matter what McGonagall said, he considered it an absolute injustice that Malfoy wasn’t serving time in a jail cell right now.

He hadn’t forgotten that night on the lightning struck tower. Malfoy had lowered his wand, but he’d let the Death Eaters into the castle. And Dumbledore had fallen and broken, like a doll. All that brilliance and wit, thwarted because he’d chosen to believe the good in someone who didn’t deserve it.

McGonagall had accused Harry of being too suspicious of Malfoy; everyone had. And look where it had led them.

McGonagall seemed to have guessed the nature of Harry’s thoughts, because she gave a deep sigh before continuing. “You could do a great deal more good if you worked together. The war is over, and we are on the same side. Are we not, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good. Mr. Potter?”

Harry bit his lip. Who was she to lecture him like a child, after what he’d done? He could probably walk into the Auror office now and be handed a job, why did he even bother—

“Potter, do not disappoint me.” Her voice had that edge to it, and Harry found himself agreeing before he could stop himself, “Yes, Professor McGonagall.”

“Good.” McGonagall sat back. “Now, over the break—”

“Minerva! Sorry to interrupt—” it was Neville Longbottom, his round face anxious. “I have some information to share with you. He was holding an iPhone, and he looked drawn and anxious.

McGonagall surveyed Harry and Malfoy, calculating. “Very well. Enjoy your break. You may go.”

“What’s up?” Harry asked Neville as he walked in and took the seat Malfoy had just vacated.

“This corona virus.” Neville looked from McGonagall to Harry and back again, clearly unsure how much he should divulge. “It’s spreading.”

“So? Muggle diseases can’t bother wizards, right?”

Neville gulped. “Well, that’s the thing—it’s—spreading to the wizarding community. Several members of Puddlemere United have fallen ill after visiting a local pub.

“But that’s impossible.”

“The Center for Magical Diseases and Infections thought so too,” Neville said, “But it’s happening. Kingsley has ordered the school to send children home. Immediately. “

McGonagall sighed, running a hand across her face. “Very well. I will send a message to the students’ families that they can be expected tomorrow morning.”

“Professor Sprout and Madame Pomfrey are working on administering immune boosters, but it looks like it won’t be enough for everyone. We’ll have to give it to the first years first.”

McGonagall was already writing. As they watched, she signed with a flourish, then waved her wand. The message disappeared in a cloud of flame.

“What about students who are staying here?” Harry asked, ignoring the mocking glance Malfoy shot him. “Where will we go?”

“You should be fine here within a limited population,” Neville said.

“Hogwarts will always be a safe place,” McGonagall agreed. “Though I can’t imagine families won’t want to see their children now more than ever. Has anyone—how severe are the symptoms?”

“The old and the immunocompromised are having the hardest time with it,” Neville said. “The casualties are--concerning.”

Draco stiffened, but said nothing.

“We ought to prepare for the worst. Gather the teachers here, and you may stay as Head Boy. Potter and Malfoy, you are dismissed, and not a word to anyone.”

“Professor, if I might have a word?” Malfoy looked curiously flushed, his eyes bright in the light. “I have a request to make of you.”

“Can it wait?”

“No, Professor.”

McGonagall eyed him for a moment. “Very well. Potter, back to the Gryffindor dormitory. And do not repeat everything you heard in this room. The last thing we want is for students to panic, is that clear?”

“Yes, Professor.”

Harry left, his mind racing.

What was this new disease? How dangerous was it? And what would happen to the school if it continued?

_We didn’t close when there was a basilisk roaming the halls,_ Harry thought. _Surely they won’t close because of this._

Of course, Harry told everything to Ron and Hermione.

They’d been able to handle the secret of Voldemort’s immortality. Harry was pretty sure they could deal with the spread of a virus.

“Looks like we’re cancelling our trips, then.” Ron glanced at Harry. “Do you want to come home with me?”

“Or me,” Hermione interrupted.

“No, it’s fine.” Harry felt curiously adrift from the both of them. He’d already accepted that he’d be spending the break alone, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to change everything. Ready to face the Weasleys, who were supposed to be spending the holiday grieving. Or Hermione’s parents, who wanted only to reconnect with the daughter they’d thought hadn’t existed for nearly a year…

The Dursleys had already sent him a note, “ _Virus spreading. DON’T COME HOME.”_ Which might have been touching had it not been for the fact that they were probably more concerned with their own self-preservation than his own.

“I’d rather be here, anyway. You know that.” Harry was sort of looking forward to his time alone. At least he’d be able to visit Dumbledore’s grave in private, without a thousand eyes watching him. He could sneak down to the kitchens and see if the house-elves would let him experiment with a few recipes (he’d gotten very into cooking these last few months; it was a side effect of a childhood spent with food scarcity)…

“I have some studying to catch up on,” Harry said, which made Hermione pull a skeptical face. “Really! I’m so behind!”

“Harry, you saved the Wizarding World. It’s not like they’re going to fail you. Besides, what if this thing lasts long? You don’t want to be here by yourself!” Ron was more earnest than the situation demanded, and Harry knew that he just still felt bad about uninviting him to his family’s.

“No, there’s no need to derail your plans over me. Really.” Harry forced a smile against the heaviness that descended in his chest. “Just write to me, okay?”

Hermione touched the back of his hand with hers, a gesture they’d gotten into after Ron left, a way of checking in with the other. _I’m here,_ the touch said. _Are you okay?_

Harry tapped the back of her knuckles. _No, but I’m going to be fine._

He turned back to Ron’s chess game. “Come on. Let’s play.”

“I don’t know why the two of you bother with this.” Hermione wrinkled it nose. “It’s absolutely barbaric.”

“You’re just upset because I’m better than you!” Ron smirked, directing one of his knights to begin beating up Harry’s bishop.

“How did Malfoy react?” Hermione asked suddenly. “Learning that wizards are susceptible to a Muggle disease must be the Ninth Circle of Hell for him and his family.”

Harry shrugged. He hadn’t really thought about Malfoy. Any more than usual. Today.

Malfoy _had_ seemed anxious at first, but that could have been anything. He probably just hated being in Harry’s presence. Harry was pretty sure that they were allergic to each other. Having Malfoy’s eyes on him too much always made him itch. Even looking at his dot on the Marauder’s Map did it—like the hatred was yawning across their entire magical distance. He was so _irritating._

“I bet he’ll lock his doors and stay inside, and set one of those ridiculous peacocks on the Muggle postman.” Harry said. “Maybe he won’t come back at all.”

“A Hogwarts without Malfoy,” Ron said. “What a lovely thought.”

And Harry couldn’t explain the twinge in his chest when Ron said that.

*******

**DRACO**

Draco didn’t speak until Longbottom had left the room, casting a suspicious glance over his shoulder as he went. The last thing he needed was _Longbottom_ telling tales.

“Professor, I am concerned about the virus. With my mother’s illness—”

McGonagall tipped her head to the side. “What are you suggesting, exactly?”

“Is there a chance I can stay home after break—I don’t want to have to isolate from my own family—”

He could see McGonagall tuning him out as he went on.

He didn’t know why he bothered. None of the teachers ever took any of his requests seriously.

Never mind that his mother was pale and sickly, red splotches standing out along her skin. Her Healers never left her room with anything but somber expressions, and his father—

His father didn’t leave her side, didn’t say a word to Draco. Just kept her thin hand between his own, watching her every breath and movement like he was afraid they were her last.

Truthfully, Draco had been glad to go to Hogwarts for the spring semester. He hated being in the house when they were like that. It was as though he were intruding on the living dead.

And he hated himself for feeling that way.

Apparently, his mother’s condition was genetic, so they thought he might develop symptoms, especially if he was exposed to her. Something about magical immune systems and the transfer of antibodies, other jargon Malfoy never bothered to listen to.

It never mattered to him how to Heal. He knew he would only ever be good for the opposite.

It was all such a fucking joke. His parents needn’t worry. No disease, magical or otherwise, would ever affect him again.

Voldemort had made him a vampire against his will, in the final moments of the Battle of Hogwarts. The Dark Lord had been raving in the Forbidden Forest, his mind already half-broken from the destruction of his Horcruxes, waiting frantically for Potter to arrive, and he’d wanted ‘a bit of fun.’

Malfoy had tried to run, but Sanguini was so fast.

He’d looked into those liquid eyes and it had all faded to blackness.

And when he’d woken, he was so…hungry.

And now he had to stay in a huge population, just to blend in, just to make sure no one came after him with wooden stakes or pitchforks, fake it and smile and act like everything was fine for the rest of his immortal existence.

It was exhausting to pretend to be better than your nature; it was why he’d joined the Death Eaters in the first place. Not betraying Potter had made his skin crawl.

Being a vampire only amplified what had always been there.

Draco Malfoy was finally the monster he always knew he’d be.

His mind flashed to those first few moments on the battlefield—he’d turned suddenly on a crowd of Death Eaters, nobodies, expendable to Voldemort and everyone else, useless fodder for the armies.

He’d thought no one would notice.

But Aunt Bellatrix was always drawn to the smell of blood.

“You could learn a thing or two from Greyback,” she chortled when she found him, guzzling at the neck of one of the Death Eaters, their blood staining the front of his collar. “He knows how to kill without being too messy.” She flicked her wand, and the body slumped against him, dead.

Draco pushed it away in disgust.

“Don’t act so scandalized!” Bellatrix. “The sooner you embrace your nature, the easier it will be.”

“No! I—I won’t.”

But Bellatrix only laughed, that laugh turning into a snarl as she spotted more enemies ahead.

When he was certain that she’d left, he bent his head to the man’s neck and drank again.

He couldn’t help it. It had to be human blood; nothing else worked. He’d even tried a few rats, a deer, a bear. Nothing else satisfied him.

Eventually, he’d managed to control it. He’d snuck the books up to his room, the ones from the depths of his father’s library, done even more research at Hogwarts. He knew the rules: spell a piece of jewelry to walk in the Sun. Don’t get too upset, or your fangs will show. Stay in big populations, where you won’t be noticed. Replenish the blood when you’re done. Wipe their memory. Heal the bitemarks. Disappear.

He’d even raided a few Muggle hospitals, and he still had some bags stashed in a refrigerated, concealed section of his trunk. A simple Undetectable Extension Charm, and he had enough blood to last him weeks.

Only, he was near to running out. He’d been planning to raid a few Muggle hospitals over the break, but now…

“Is there any chance I’ve been exposed to it?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” McGonagall said. “It seems that you could be, were you to be in a place heavily trafficked, like Kings Cross station, recently.”

Malfoy sneered, not even bothering to deny it. He knew they’d had someone following him. Thomas was always so sloppy. “Well, I can obviously get around that—”

McGonagall flicked her wand and froze him where he was. “Test him.” She called, and Longbottom sauntered back in, looking smug.

“Told you Dean was right,” he crowed.

“I’m seventeen. What I do is my own business.” Malfoy said. Though his limbs were immobile, he could still speak. “I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

“Perhaps not.” McGonagall said, and her voice was almost sympathetic as she continued. “But they will not have the answers you seek.”

Neville muttered a charm, tracing it over Malfoy’s body. “He’s certainly been exposed.” Neville said. “But—I don’t think he’s actually contracted—”

“Enough! Of course a filthy Muggle virus wouldn’t take hold of me,” Malfoy tried to move, but the spell held him fast. “Just clean me and let me go home.”

Neville muttered a charm, and Malfoy’s skin glowed for a moment. “There. All traces obliterated.”

“We’ll do similarly on the students as they leave,” McGonagall sighed. “Though I think it might be best to get them out of the castle as soon as possible.”

“I can be out of the gates by the morning.” Malfoy said. “I’ll send word to my family, if you’ll just—”

McGonagall flicked her wand, and Malfoy felt himself able to move again, but her glare froze him all the same. “You aren’t going anywhere, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I should be with my family. I can Apparate away from any Muggles who—”

“You have already been exposed. That means you continue to be contagious, particularly if you develop symptoms. Mr. Longbottom has removed the traces from your skin, but your cough, your saliva, will all contain traces of the virus for the next few days.”

“You can’t keep me here—” this was ridiculous, Draco knew the virus couldn’t take hold in his system; he was immune, he was immune to everything—“My mother—Professor—”

“Your mother is much safer with you here.” McGonagall finished in her clipped voice. “We are united on this, Mr. Malfoy. Your father has already informed me that should you arrive at their door, he will simply send you back here.”

Draco slumped in his chair, defeated. “I need to see them.”

“You need to think of someone other than yourself, Mr. Malfoy. You will spend the night in your dormitory. The other Slytherins are being moved out and checked for exposure as we speak. We may be able to head off the virus with a few antiviral spells, as long as it has not taken hold in their systems—”

“I’m to stay here alone?”

“You are to stay here for the duration of the break, and longer if necessary. You are dismissed.”

“But—”

_“Dismissed,_ Mr. Malfoy. I shall keep you apprised of the situation.”

Malfoy got up, grinding his teeth.

What if his mother got sicker? What if he was here, and she—and he didn’t get to say goodbye?

This stupid school, Potter and his friends. No one ever cared what he felt. No one gave him the benefit of the doubt.

He didn’t have a single person he could ask for help.

He was all alone.


	2. Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds that he is not all alone for break, as he had hoped. And Draco's acting so unusual--he must be up to something. 
> 
> Draco tries to contain his...urges. And to keep his distance from the ever-righteous Harry Potter. If only he wasn't so attractive.

**HARRY**

Everyone left after breakfast. He saw the mass exodus, a sea of black transported in carriages from the castle to where the train waited, from his vantage point atop the Owlery.

He still liked to come to the Owlery, even though he found himself looking for Hedwig without realizing it. He hadn’t gotten a new owl; to do so at this point seemed like an insult, when Hedwig had died defending him. She had been his only friend at the Dursleys.

He’d said goodbye to Ron and Hermione at breakfast, where Hermione had spent the majority of her time scrolling through her phone, reading the news of the corona virus as it spread throughout the UK.

Harry had tuned her out, thinking of taking a fly around the Quidditch pitch later, when she suddenly slammed something on the table in front of him. He jumped, then rolled his eyes.

“I don’t need an iPhone.” Harry said. “I’m fine with communicating by owl.

“We don’t know how much longer that communication will be allowed,” Hermione said. “Besides, owls can be intercepted, as you well know.”

“Don’t we have to pay for these?” He saw Ron had already turned his on and was tapping on the screen with his fingertips in fascination. “Internet service, cell service, stuff like that?”

“Come on, Harry.” Hermione half-smiled. “You know I found a way around that.”

“Fascinating,” Ron said, and Harry heard the click of a camera. “But the pictures don’t move—look!”

“I already programmed mine and Ron’s numbers in there. Promise you’ll text us.”

“Hermione, I don’t think this is that big of a deal—”

“ _Promise.”_

Harry huffed. “Fine.”

Of course, her utterances about how important it was to stay in communication hadn’t stopped him from tossing his new phone on his bed as soon as he arrived back in the dormitories.

He looked at the owls perched all around him, and thought with a pang of Sirius. It felt like all he did here was walk the paths of old memories. Ghosts followed him at every turn.

But the Sun was shining, and it was a warm day for March. The very least he could do was spend some time outdoors on his broom.

Quidditch still managed to sweep away every problem in his head, at least as long as he flew fast enough.

It was when Harry finally stepped back into the castle, thinking of taking a late lunch, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom, that he heard it.

Footsteps, pacing back and forth hurriedly.

They came from a nearby empty classroom, and Harry’s wand jumped into his hand without thinking.

McGonagall had said that all the other students were staying home or with friends over break; even most of the teachers had retired to their summer homes.

Harry heard whispering in an odd language, and a chill went up his spine. Something dangerous lurked on the other side of that door, he was sure of it.

Heart pounding, he pressed his body against the wall and turned the knob so that it swung open.

The whispering stopped, and Harry heard the rustling of papers.

“Who’s there?” Someone called shakily. Harry frowned. That voice sounded so familiar.

He stepped through the threshold, a hundred curses on his lips.

**DRACO**

“Malfoy?” Harry’s wand was pointed precisely at his chest, like he could hear where he was from the hallway, and he didn’t lower it, even when Malfoy held up his own empty hands defensively. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”

“Don’t come any closer.” Malfoy pressed himself against the wall. “Quarantine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Harry lowered his wand, pointing it instead at the door, which swung shut behind him. _Show off._ “You and I both haven’t had any contact with Muggles.” “Get the fuck away from me, Potter!” Malfoy’s wand was out now, leveled at Harry’s chest. He didn’t even know why he was reacting this way. In the past, he would have been delighted to find out Potter had contracted a deadly virus, and honored to have passed it to him.

“Whoa, Malfoy.” Harry’s voice had that soft note in it, the one where he made everything feel like it was your fault. “Let’s talk about this. I thought you were going home for break.”

“Fuck off, Potter.”

Harry didn’t even have a snarky comeback, the git. “Is everything alright?”

“McGonagall’s orders. None of your business.”

Harry gestured to the papers in front of him, the ones Malfoy had hastily stacked and flipped over when he’d heard the noise. “What are you working on?”

“I just told you, Potter. Fuck off.” Potter didn’t need to know he’d been looking at vampire anatomy, trying to figure out how much blood he could ration before he started to desiccate.

Now that Draco thought about it, he _was_ hungry. Potter’s heart was beating fast, pumping that delicious blood through his veins. His cheeks were flushed with it.

Draco’s jaw ached…

_Stop. Focus._

With a massive effort, Draco willed his fangs back into his gums.

But Harry was still looking at him with that obnoxious expression on his face. Merlin, couldn’t Potter ever just leave it _alone?_ “Do you need any help? Hermione’s taught me a lot about library—”

“I don’t need anything from you or your filthy Mudblood friends,” Draco hissed, gathering up his papers.

He walked past Potter to the door, trying not to inhale as he passed.

Potter smelled delicious—throbbing blood and grass and a hint of sweat…

Draco’s fangs started to descend.

“It figures I would be stuck in Hogwarts with _you.”_ Harry shouted at his back.

“It’s a huge castle, Potter,” Draco spoke around the fangs descending in his mouth, not daring to do more than a half turn-around. “It shouldn’t be hard for you to stay away from me, unless you’re still obsessed with me, that is.”

He didn’t know why he’d added that last line. He was just so _frustrated._ With Potter, and his necessity to always be there, trying to ruin everything he wanted. Always proving to be the better wizard, the better man. Looking over his shoulder, asking questions, those infuriating green eyes and that shock of black hair that never seemed to lay flat, liked he’d just gotten off the Quidditch pitch….

He expected a reply from Potter, but when he finally turned around at the end of the corridor, Potter was simply watching him, speechless.

“Glad I finally managed to shut you up,” Draco spat, before dashing down one of the moving staircases.

Draco ran his tongue over his slowly descending fangs idly, still thinking of how _delicious_ Potter had looked.

He’d been rationing his blood for a day, and he was already so _hungry_.

When Draco arrived at the Slytherin common room, he quickly whispered the password and dashed to his dormitory, flinging himself on his bed and putting his hand over his eyes.

“Potter,” he whispered weakly.

An image rushed to him, unbidden. He’d pressed Potter against the wall, the papers cascading out of his arms. With precise, delicate hands, Draco shoved Potter’s head to the side and sank his fangs into his neck. Potter gave a groan that was half-pain, half pleasure. His eyelids fluttered…

Now Draco’s fangs had pierced his bottom lip, and he had a raging boner.

_Quarantined with Potter._ Draco put his hand over his eyes and took deep breaths, forcing the images out of his head. _What kind of cruel joke is this?_

“Merlin help me,” Draco said aloud. “I’m going to kill Harry Potter.”

**HARRY**

Harry had already tried to inform McGonagall of the Malfoy situation. She’d practically laughed him out of her office. “It’s an enormous castle, Potter.” She said crisply. “Surely you can manage to not kill each other.”

“No promises,” Harry muttered.

Malfoy was so irritating. His hair always perfect, hands neatly manicured even though Harry _saw_ him lifting weights with the rest of the Slytherin Quidditch team, his muscles gleaming in the Sun..

And he was always up to something. Even now, he’d been all secretive and aloof whenever Harry had seen him. He was sure it had to be something Dark or dangerous, or both. When had Malfoy ever done something for the good of someone else?

_You’re still obsessed with me,_ Malfoy always sounded so smug, so convinced that he was superior just for never bothering to come after Harry.

Well, his obsessions had always proved correct, hadn’t it? Any time there was something Dark or dangerous going on, Malfoy was probably at the bottom of it. Laughing the whole time.

Harry pulled out his Marauder’s Map. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he whispered, and waited as the map filled with ink.

He found Malfoy in seconds, partly because there were only ten or so people left in the castle, but also because Malfoy was always in the library this time of day. He had been for the entire seventh year, and Harry could never figure out why.

Malfoy had never cared much about his studies before; he’d always been either smart enough or well-connected enough to get good marks regardless. So why was he spending hours in the library every day, reading?

Harry had managed to convince Hermione to do some snooping with him a few weeks ago, even though she’d been adamanatly against it at first.

“You’re obsessed with Malfoy,” she accused. “You need to let it go. The war’s over. Voldemort isn’t coming back.”

“Don’t you at least want to know what he’s reading?” Harry needled her. “I mean, what could interest Malfoy? What if it’s something you’ve never heard of?”

That, of course, got her attention. The chance of there being a book Hermione Granger hadn’t read or wasn’t familiar with was slim, but the mere thought of being bested was enough. Hermione never backed down from a challenge.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “We’ll go to the library while he’s there. To _study.”_

At first, it had been exceptionally boring. There Malfoy was, reading and taking copious notes in a journal. Harry had tried to see what it was numerous times, but Malfoy always kept the book flat on the table, and bent over his work whenever Harry walked by.

Malfoy hadn’t even intimated that he’d heard Harry at first, until the third time he’d caught Harry staring at him from across the room. “Jealous of my perfect features, Potter?” he tilted his face up, so that the light illuminated his aquiline features. “It’s what comes from not having a mother like yours.”

Harry had nearly risen from his seat, but Hermione had an iron grip on his elbow. “Sit. Down.” She hissed. “Read,” she thrusted _Hogwarts, a History_ at him.

“You know full well I’m never going to read this,” Harry said.

“First time for everything,” Hermione snapped. Then she slid him a piece of paper. _I have a plan._

Hermione’s plan turned out to be casting a Tracking Charm on Malfoy’s book, which she’d managed to do while leaving for the loo. Malfoy, too distracted by Potter’s nosiness, hadn’t even noticed.

That night, they pulled the book and pored over it together.

“This is just research on Dark creatures,” Harry said, disappointed. “It’s for Professor Sheen’s class.”

“Oh, you mean the paper you still haven’t started on?” Hermione said. “You could learn a thing or two from Malfoy.”

“That might just be the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me,” said Harry absently. There were sections on water kelpies, dragons, vampires, werewolves…Malfoy had never been interested in such things before. Harry was fairly certain he was still repulsed at the idea of part human creatures, just like Voldemort had taught him.

So why the sudden change?

“He’s up to something—"

“--I know it,” Hermione finished. “Just let it go, Harry. Worry about you.”

And she wouldn’t discuss the matter any further.

But now Harry was _sure_ Malfoy was up to something. After all, it was spring break, and they’d all turned in that paper weeks ago. What was he researching now?

Harry stared at the dot of Draco in the Slytherin dormitories, wondering if Draco could feel him watching, wishing he was a better Legilimens. _What are you planning, Malfoy?_

_And who’s going to get hurt this time?_

**DRACO**

Dinner that night was a lousy affair.

First, Draco had come down to the Great Hall to find that the House tables had been replaced by a single table in the middle.

Next, McGonagall and Potter were sitting across from each other, talking like two old friends. He wondered if McGonagall would tell Potter about his mother. It would be just like her, thinking it might instill Potter’s sympathy.

Sympathy was the last thing Draco wanted. He just wanted everyone to stay the hell away from him.

Draco glared at them as he sat as far across the table as possible. He grabbed a piece of chicken and tore into it viciously. It was bad enough that he had to fake eating dinner; worse that he was doing it in front of Potter and McGonagall. The least he could do was make sure they didn’t notice how much he was eating; people usually tried to politely ignore bad table manners.

Of course, this only made Potter watch him with even more interest. Draco could practically see the cogs in his head turning. He took a long swallow of pumpkin juice. It tasted like sawdust, like every other human food always had, but it was better than skipping the meals.

He felt feel full for a moment, before the hunger set in again. He’d looked in the mirror before he’d come down. There were already dark hollows beneath his eyes, and his skin had a sickly and bluish tinge to it.

The blood would run out in a week.

After a few moments, Potter and McGonagall returned to their conversation, but Draco could still see Potter shooting him glances every few moments.

They met eyes for a second, and Draco thought suddenly of the fantasy which had emerged so suddenly in his head—his fangs in Harry’s neck, the sweet blood running down, the way Potter would _gasp._

_What’s wrong with me?_ Draco had never felt a hunger like this before, and he’d never felt this—attraction—to any of his other prey.

_It’s not Potter,_ he thought. _Must be something to do with him as my nemesis. My entire nature is pitted against his destruction._ _His blood probably tastes like liquid gold and strawberries , and he smells like a broomshed all the time, and his eyes are so_ fucking _green…_

Draco shook his head, willing his fangs back into his mouth. He stood. “If you all will excuse me,” He said. Good night, Professor, Harry.”

“It’s 7PM.” Harry said, just as McGonagall replied, “Sleep well, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco swept out of the Great Hall, but he could feel Harry’s eyes on him the entire time.

He hated how much he liked it.


	3. Day 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Potter was where he had always been: in the way."
> 
> It's Day 25, and things are getting even more serious for Harry and Draco. Draco's blood supply is low, and he can't figure out how to get more. Harry is convinced that Draco is up to something. 
> 
> And it's only the beginning.

**HARRY**

_“COVID-19 continues to spread across the UK, with an estimated 2,000 infected. The prime minster urges citizens to shelter-in-place and avoid large gatherings until the virus is under control. While scientists the world over are at work developing a vaccine, none has yet been approved for use. The prime minister plans to issue…”_

Harry closed out of the article without reading further. It was more of the same; he wondered why Hermione bothered to even send them to him.

His commitment to avoiding phones had lasted as long as the end of the first week. Talking to only McGonagall and Trelawney would do that to you. McGonagall spoke only of what he could be doing to prepare for N.E.W.T.s, whereas Trelawney…well, she hadn’t ever stopped making Doomsday prophecies.

“Yes, the cards all show it, Harry!’ She shook one at him aggressively. “Famine. Destruction. Death looms ever closer!"

Harry nodded politely, while McGonagall just furrowed her eyebrows. Harry could see that she was trying desperately not to make a sarcastic comment. “I’ll keep an eye out for danger, Professor.” He said finally, when Trelawney seemed disinclined to let him leave the table without a sincere commitment to the safety of the Wizarding World.

“You aren’t taking me seriously,” Trelawney sniffed, tossing back her hair. “It is an affront, Harry, though not an unusual one. We Seers have always been ignored, always mocked and ridiculed. It is, alas, our Fate.”

“I’m sorry—” Harry began awkwardly.

“I would have thought you, of all people, would know the importance of prophecies, would know their value. But very well, Potter, very well. Do as you normally would.” She lowered her head, and Harry thought her shoulders shook with a sob.

Harry exchanged glances with McGonagall, who simply rolled her eyes and said, “Enjoy the rest of your day, Potter,” jerking her head at Trelawney as if to say, _while you can._

Conversations with McGonagall and Trelawney, while never boring, certainly weren’t a way to maintain his sanity.

Of course, he could have talked to Malfoy, but he wasn’t sure if such a thing qualified as a sane interaction. 

Hermione texted him almost daily with updates, and Ron occasionally sent a poorly taken selfie or two, but he was growing restless. It was already past time for spring break to be over, and the whole world seemed like it was just on hold, waiting for news of the next disaster, the newest outbreak.

Not to mention, he was having a hard time staying away from Draco Malfoy.

In spite of the fact that the Hogwarts castle was enormous, their paths were constantly overlapping. He’d come down to the Great Hall for breakfast, and Draco would be wolfing down a piece of toast. He’d arrive at the Quidditch pitch for a workout, and Draco would already be out flying over the hoops. He’d go to the library to research infectious diseases (at Hermione’s direction), and Malfoy was already there, his nose in a book with an indecipherable title.

Harry had thought it was difficult being around Malfoy while school was in session, but it was doubly difficult now. There was no way to avoid him, no steady stream of other students to dull the painful brilliance of his hair, or to dissipate his sneers and mocking remarks.

He pulled out the Marauder’s Map again. “ _I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”_

“He’s up to something,” Harry said aloud. “I know it.”

_Obsessed,_ he could practically hear Hermione say.

Maybe he was obsessed with Malfoy, but he’d never been wrong. 

Malfoy was in the library _again_. It was absolutely infuriating—he didn’t care about these diseases. He probably thought only wizards descended from Muggles were susceptible; it was exactly the kind of pureblood thinking that he was known for.

Malfoy never cared about anyone but himself.

So why all this time in the library? Why was he always pacing the Slytherin common room late at night, as though puzzling out some great mystery?

Once again, Harry thought he would give anything to take a spin in the mind of Draco Malfoy.

As Harry watched, the dot that represented Malfoy got up and began to pace the library, going to a shelf and back again. All of a sudden, it started moving into the hall.

Harry watched with only slight interest, assuming Malfoy had just thought to stop for lunch, or spend more time walking around his bedroom. He glanced at the window as the rain beat savagely against it; the trees bent and swayed in the wind, and lightning crackled across the sky. Neither of them would be playing Quidditch today.

But Malfoy had already passed the Great Hall…

And he wasn’t descending into the dungeons, either.

In fact, he seemed to be climbing floors, going ever-upward.

It wasn’t until Malfoy actually started walking along the seventh floor corridor that Harry realized it.

He snatched his Invisibility Cloak and threw it over his head, then dashed out the door, still clutching the map in his hand.

The Room of Requirement had suffered Fiendfyre damage when Harry had fought Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle for the Horcrux hidden there. It had also been the site of Harry’s D.A. meetings, which Draco and the Inquisitorial Squad had broken up under Umbridge’s sadistic tutelage.

Harry smiled in memory, though. The D.A. meetings had been some of the best moments of his life, the ones where he really felt like he was doing something useful, contributing outside the influence of Dumbledore or any of the other adults who sought to run his life.

His first kiss had happened there, when Cho Chang had approached him under the mistletoe.

“How was it?” Ron had asked.

“Wet?”

“Huh?”

“Because she was crying?”

“Are you that bad at it?”

“Dunno,” Harry had said with a growing sense of horror. “Maybe I am.”

Sometimes the memories were too painful to bear; it was like remembering a long-lost friend. He’d thought he’d been shrouded in darkness then, but he’d give anything to have the problems he’d thought so insurmountable at 15.

Harry shook his head. Thankfully, the Fiendfyre hadn’t permanently damaged the room’s magic. It had only destroyed the thousands of artifacts in the Room of Hidden Things, the bust of the troll, the glass stopper with that dark red substance…

The Vanishing Cabinet?

Harry closed his eyes, thinking. Had they left the Vanishing Cabinet—surely not, someone would have moved it after it had been put to its horrible purpose. Then again, who knew what changes had been made under Snape’s regime? Who knew whether McGonagall even knew the full details? 

And it was Malfoy who had discovered the broken Vanishing Cabinet, Malfoy who had mended it and used it to let the Death Eaters into the school…

A mission that had led to all three of them: Harry, Malfoy, and Dumbledore, at the top of a lightning-struck tower…

Malfoy claimed to be reformed, but Harry hardly believed it.

What if this was part of a plot to bring back the Death Eaters?

What if there was something or someone out there even more powerful and dangerous than Voldemort? What if he was about to let them in?

Harry had to find out; no one would believe him otherwise. 

He raced to the seventh floor, praying that Malfoy wouldn’t vanish off the map before he got there. He’d learned his lesson from his past attempts: if you didn’t know exactly what you wanted the Room of Requirement to become, it would remain locked.

He skidded around a corner and raced down the hallway, bent down low to keep the Invisibility Cloak from flapping around his ankles.

And there was Malfoy, pacing in front of a seemingly blank stretch of wall, his face contorted in concentration.

Harry’s heart sank—how was he supposed to know what the Room was if Malfoy didn’t say anything?

And then Malfoy stopped, so abruptly and precisely it seemed almost inhuman. He turned his head slowly until he was staring exactly at where Harry was standing, and his nostrils flared, like he was scenting the air.

“I know you’re there, Potter. You have two seconds to take off that bloody cloak before I take it from you.”

**DRACO**

It really was laughable that Harry thought he could sneak up on Malfoy.

Not only was he incredibly loud, panting and clattering his way down the hallway, but Draco could hear his heartbeat.

He could even hear the _whoosh_ of air as it went in and out of his lungs.

He sounded so…delicious.

But even if Draco hadn’t been a vampire, he could always tell where Potter was. It was like an obnoxious sixth sense, some lingering clairvoyance.

He’d have that prickly feeling of being watched, and then sense some sickly righteousness.

And there Potter would be, staring at him from across the Quidditch pitch. Whispering to Granger or Weasley, his gaze darting away at the last second. Draco had felt Harry watching him every day he’d left the Great Hall since this had started; so intense and scorching that it nearly burned the back of his neck…

And now here Potter was, in all his golden glory. He’d taken to wearing Muggle clothes over the break—but at least these ones fit. In fact, his red t-shirt was stretched appetizingly around the bulging muscles in his biceps. Potter had gotten so _tall_ these last few years…

There it was again. Why couldn’t he make these thoughts go away? Was he finally going insane?

He just knew he was so _hungry._ And Potter was the same place he’d always been: in the way.

“What are you doing in the Room of Requirement?” Potter looked a little embarrassed at being caught, but his self-righteousness won out, like always.

“Like I’d tell you.”

“It doesn’t even work! The Fiendfyre—”

“Did not destroy the entire room, just the Room of Hidden Things,” Draco rolled his eyes. “Honestly, you think Granger’s the only one with magical knowledge?”

“I--didn’t know. Hermione never told me--”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t know _anything._ That’s the whole problem.”

“I’m always right about you.” Harry retorted. “I always know when you’re up to something!”

“Really? So why bother asking me? Why not just clamp me in irons and put me in Azkaban?” He could be so frustrating sometimes, and so beautiful, and Draco was fairly sure that if he kept staring at him with his muscles looking like _that,_ he’d pass out. Or kill him.

“You’d get out of it! Always!” Harry was nearly shouting now, his green eyes narrowed in fury behind his glasses. “You find your way out of _everything.”_

Draco gave a bitter laugh. “You don’t know a thing about me, Potter.”

“I know you’re going to do Dark Magic!”

And that’s when Draco lost it. “Of course I am! Because Merlin forbid I do anything worthwhile with my life. Merlin forbid I do anything decent. I saved your life. I saved your _life_ , Harry Potter, and I saved your friends. You _owe_ me—”

“I paid you back.” Harry rested his hand against the wall, as though he could feel the outline of the door. “I pulled you out of the fire. I grabbed your hand.”

“We would have survived.”

“You would have burned alive, and you know it.”

Draco said nothing to that. Potter’s heart was racing, and Draco’s fangs were starting to descend. He looked down for a moment, trying to control himself. “Whatever, Harry.” He said. “You’re always the better person. Happy?”

Harry was silent for a long moment.

Draco forced his fangs back, and his eyes met Harry’s. They looked at one another, for the first time, as something more than mortal enemies.

Harry was about to say something when McGonagall’s voice sounded, magically magnified so that it resonated throughout the castle: 

“There have been confirmed cases of coronavirus in the castle. Until you can be tested, you must shelter in place. I repeat, do not go back to your dormitories. Stay where you are.”

Draco swore. “How long is this going to be?” Draco ran a hand through his hair, feeling his chest tighten.

“As long as it takes, Mr. Malfoy. And watch your language!” McGonagall replied.

“You spelled the announcements to have a listening feature?”

McGonagall didn’t answer, which Malfoy figured was answer enough.

What was he supposed to do now? He could hardly tell Potter what he’d been trying to do in the Room of Requirement. And he was so… _hungry._

He usually only came here at night, when the rest of the castle was asleep. He didn’t have an Invisibility Cloak like Potter’s, of course, but he could cast a Disillusionment Charm well enough. He’d been trying for days to find a way for the Room to make what he needed. 

So far, he’d had no luck. Food was one of the five exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration, and apparently blood qualified as food.

Draco was getting desperate. He was down to his final blood bag, and he felt constantly weak and exhausted. It didn’t help that he was having to eat normal food so often; which tasted like sawdust.

Draco had been having dreams about what he was missing. Sinking his fangs into an unsuspecting victim’s neck, feeling them shudder against him, the warm and salty gush of blood as it entered his mouth.

With increasing frequency, that victim had black hair and bright green eyes…

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” Harry put his hands on his hips. “You may as well tell me.”

Draco snorted, then sauntered down the hallway, toward one of the staircases. “I’m not doing what McGonagall says. When my father hears about this—”

He stopped. At the end of the hallway, there seemed to be invisible wall of air between him and the staircase.

“What the— _Reducto!”_ Draco tried to move forward again, but nothing happened.

“Looks like we’re stuck here.” Potter sank down onto the floor by the wall, his head hanging.

“This is outrageous! They can’t just keep us here.”

“I can do whatever I need to protect the safety of my students, Mr. Malfoy.” McGonagall’s voice rang out, and a moment later she appeared at the top of the staircase, her emerald robes swirling behind her. “I will send you and Potter supplies.”

“What about our things?” Harry was at his side now, his fingers tapping on his leg. “My phone—”

“Sorry, but you cannot leave until the rest of the staff has been cleared.”

“How soon will we know if we have it?” Harry asked.

“I will have a Healer come and test you tomorrow, Mr. Potter. You’ll have to stay a few days to ensure no contamination, of course, but should you test negative--”

“A few _days?”_ If Draco wasn’t upset about his own predicament, it might have been satisfying that Potter had finally found a rule he couldn’t worm his way around. “That’s insane! How will we survive that long?”

“Like I said, I will have someone bring you supplies,” McGonagall’s reply was curt and direct, but her voice softened as she said. “That is my final word, Potter. Let me know if you develop any symptoms.”

Malfoy could tell that Harry was wrestling with the desire to be polite. “Fine,” he said finally. “Can I—”

“You cannot. For once in your life, Potter, _do as you’re told.”_

And then she was gone, disappearing back up the staircase. Draco heard the stomp of boots on stone, then silence.

Beside Draco, Potter’s blood was rising in his face, his heart had sped up again, and Draco could see the moisture his breath had left in the air. He licked his lips.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” Draco turned away hurriedly, taking off down the corridor.

“What are you doing?”

Draco held up a hand, thinking. He had to get the exact order of the words right. Longbottom had done it first—so it must have had security measures against Snape, the Carrows, and other students.

“But the passage,” Draco said aloud. “How would I phrase that?”

“What are you talking about?" Potter sure hated being left out of the game. It was almost adorable, if it wasn't so irritating. "Tell me!”

“Figuring out a place for us to sleep,” Draco said. “Unless you plan to wash in the water fountain.”

“You aren’t planning on going into Hogsmeade, are you?”

“No, Potter.” Draco retorted sarcastically. “I’m going to sit here like a good little idiot and do exactly as I’m told.”

Potter set his jaw. “McGonagall _told_ us to stay here.” He said stubbornly.

“And since when have you ever cared about the rules? Merlin’s beard, you sound like Granger.”

“This isn’t about the rules, Malfoy. It’s about keeping other people safe.”

“Why do you think I give a damn about other people?”

Harry was silent for a moment. “You cared about me,” he said. “You saved me.”

Draco snorted. “You think that was for _you?_ He was going to kill my family.”

“He would have shown you mercy if you’d told him it was me, back at your house.” Harry said. “And on the Tower—”

“Don’t talk about that night,” Draco hissed, remembering with a flash the hatred etched on Snape’s face, the jeering laughter of the other Death Eaters as he’d fallen, and that sickening sense of horror that he’d really done it, more than the mark on his arm, the attacks on Bell and Weasley, this was it, he really couldn’t go back now. “Don’t talk about it—ever.”

“You wanted to save Dumbledore.” Harry said. “But you couldn’t—he told Snape—”

“I don’t care, Potter!” Draco shouted. “You hear me?” Green sparks shot out of the end of his wand. “I. Don’t. Care.”

Potter was silent for a moment, chewing his bottom lip. He touched the scar on his forehead, and Draco was filled with a surge of sickening loathing. He turned away. “I won’t go, Harry. Okay, just—leave me alone.”

“It’s a good idea to have access to food from the Hog’s Head.” Harry said after a few moments. “Aberforth can—”

“Whatever you want.” Draco leaned against the wall, all of his energy suddenly gone. “Just do it, Harry. I don’t care anymore.”

**HARRY**

The Room of Requirement had transformed into a sizeable dormitory, with Harry’s suggestions. Malfoy had simply stood to the side and looked sullen, but Harry could tell he was at least somewhat grateful.

He hadn’t found anything to complain about whenever he’d seen his side, at least, which Harry had thoughtfully adorned with Slytherin hangings and a picture of his family.

Now, Harry stretched out on his bed and stared at the ceiling. His stomach growled; Aberforth had sent over food, but he was still hungry. It seemed that he was always making up for those years of near-starvation at the Dursleys whenever he was at Hogwarts. The thought of being stuck in this room with little food and no entertainment for an indefinite period reminded him uncomfortably of the time he, Ron, and Hermione had spent hunting Horcruxes.

Even he and Ron had reached their breaking point—but with Malfoy—he wouldn’t last twenty-four hours.

Harry shifted, rolling over to face the wall. The beds the Room of Requirement had supplied were exceedingly comfortable, at least. Malfoy was already snoring beside him.

He gave a soft laugh at the thought that Malfoy snored. It was so—unrefined. He wondered how many girls had been sworn to secrecy after spending the night in his bed.

He rolled over to look at Malfoy. He was sleeping on his stomach, his head nearly hanging over the side nearest Harry, one leg dangling off the other.

Even asleep, Malfoy carried a tension in his shoulders. Harry half-expected his eyes to snap open, for him to spring into action.

When they’d been dressing for bed (both facing their own respective walls), Harry had caught a glimpse of Malfoy’s torso in the full-length mirror.

He’d looked away quickly, his heart pounding, cheeks burning. There was something unerringly intimate about seeing him like that. He’d seen him shirtless plenty of times, of course. Slytherin’s Quidditch practices often overlapped Gryffindor’s, and Malfoy loved to parade around the pitch, glistening in all his glory.

But this was different, more personal. No one ever saw Malfoy like this, in these private moments before bed. No one had that privilege of seeing him when he wasn’t trying to be seen. Stripped of all his bravado, he was raw and arresting. He looked like art, like a painting come to life.

And he was getting so thin. There were hollows under his ribs, and his veins stood out purple against the skin of his forearms. His muscles flexed and slid as he moved with graceful precision, like a trained dancer.

Asleep, he had that same air of deliberate, effortless movement. His chest rose and fell delicately, and the shadows beneath his eyes had sharpened.

_What are you thinking?_ Harry wondered. He thought of the choked way Draco had responded to his prodding about the tower, the defeat that had sunk into him, the way he’d hung his head, like he couldn’t bother to be mean anymore. _Are you going to be okay? Do you hurt like me? Do you just wish it would stop?_

_What ghosts haunt the dreams of Draco Malfoy?_

Harry was still watching him, a curious feeling spreading through his chest, when he finally fell asleep.


	4. Hogsmeade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco disappears, and Harry looks for him. Featuring a wizard club and a lot of confessions. 
> 
> This was originally gonna be four chapters. It definitely is going to be longer than that. Hope all of y'all are staying safe and healthy, and finding ways to connect with people in spite of the isolation. It's rough out there.
> 
> highly recommend listening to crush culture by conan gray during the club scene because I basically listened to it on repeat while I wrote this chapter. also--he went off. .

**Chapter 4: Hogsmeade**

**HARRY**

Harry awoke with a start, fighting off the grip of nightmares. It was still dark; nearly 2am, and dawn was a long way from arriving over the horizon.

He was only conscious of a sudden stillness, an uncomfortable notion that something was out of place.

When he sat up to look over at Malfoy’s bed, he realized why. 

Malfoy was gone.

He swung his feet over his bed with a curse, hunting around for his shoes and socks. If Malfoy was gone, Harry knew exactly where he was.

_“Since when have you ever cared about the rules?”_

Harry hadn’t visited the portrait of Ariana Dumbledore since the Battle of Hogwarts. He hadn’t even bothered to reopen the passageway. In fact, he would have felt better if no one had ever disturbed her at all. 

He couldn’t look at her picture without feeling a rollercoaster of emotions: hatred and longing, love and frustration. He couldn’t look at her without thinking of her brother, who had pulled the strings of Harry’s life since he was born, who was always standing behind the curtain, whose desire to destroy death had caused the demise of his sister…

Even now, Harry approached her with a certain wariness. He didn’t know what she would say to him, if her portrait truly interacted with others the way other magical paintings did. After all, Ariana had been sickly, damaged by the assault she’d undergone as a child. Perhaps the only person she spoke to was Aberforth…

“He felt bad about it, you know.” Ariana spoke, startling Harry out of his reverie. She still had that quizzical half-smile on her face, and her wide, pale eyes contained a certain depth to them, the feeling that a very old person looked out of that child’s face. “Talked to me for quite some time about it, how he needed to go but hated that he was proving you right. How it was probably what he deserved, to be locked in here with you.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel sorry for him?”

“Don’t you?”

“No.” Harry lied. “I’ve never felt sorry for Draco Malfoy.

Ariana looked at him for a moment. “Aberforth talked to me about you, too, you know. After you left.”

“I really don’t want to—”

“You have ‘an unerring capacity to do the right thing,’ that’s what he said to me. You’d walk through fire to save someone else.”

“I _did.”_ Harry muttered. “For Malfoy.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t want him to die.” Harry said caustically. “It would have been too quick an end.”

Ariana sighed. “Sometimes we can’t accept the things that are most obvious to us. Albus certainly knew that.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry’s eyes pricked. What did she mean? Did she mean he felt something for _Malfoy?_

That was ridiculous; they were mortal enemies, antagonists. And Harry was in love with Ginny Weasley, had been since he’d seen her kissing Dean, and his affection for her roared to life inside of him…

Ariana was watching him as though she detected the turmoil going on inside. “Don’t make the mistakes my brother did, Harry. Don’t push someone you love into darkness.”

“What d’you—”

But Ariana had already turned and begun walking down the tunnel behind her portrait. The passageway opened, and it was clear she was done talking to him.

“Thanks.” Harry stepped into the passage, barely paying attention to the path in front of him. Why had she said those things? What did she mean? Did she really think he felt _anything_ for Malfoy beyond utter dislike?

After a few minutes, however, his mind quickly turned to the task at hand. Malfoy was in Hogsmeade, and he’d bet ten thousand Galleons it was to do something Dark or dangerous, or both. 

“ _You’re the better person, Potter. Happy?”_

_“Lumos”_ Harry whispered, holding his wand above his head as he entered the Hog’s Head. Aberforth must be traveling, he’d taken to doing that often since his brother’s death. Harry suspected that he frequented Godric’s Hollow often, the place where he’d lost Ariana, where Dumbledore and Grindelwald had plotted the destruction of the world; where, for all his efforts to protect Ariana and his mother, his family had been shattered.

But Aberforth never really said much. Whenever Harry asked him, he simply grunted about needing to tend to an old goat farm, or he told Harry to go somewhere else if he wanted to be a therapist.

Harry could hardly begrudge his reticence.

The Hog’s Head had even more dust than usual on its tables, and it was easy for Harry to see where Malfoy had been. He had left a clear trail through the floor, the sweep of his dressing gown an obvious sign.

Harry frowned. Malfoy usually would have taken care to hide such obvious marks of his passing. Did he _want_ to be found?

Was this a trap?

Harry raised the wand higher, double-checking the nooks and the crannies around the bar, wondering if Malfoy lurked beneath a Disillusionment Charm, waiting to attack.

But why wouldn’t he have just killed him in his sleep?

After a few moments, Harry was satisfied that there was nothing, or no one, else in the bar.

He followed the trail to the door and outside, looking warily up and down the streets. They were deserted, and their cobblestones left no similar trace of Malfoy’s passing. A bite of wind blew, and he shivered. It was spring, but the nights still got cold.

_If I were a narcissistic, spineless git, where would I go?_

With none of the usual haunts open, Harry had no idea what Malfoy would do in Hogsmeade. Of course, he could have simply used it as a stopping-off point for Apparition, which meant he could be anywhere by now…

Suddenly, Harry heard a crash, as though a door had slammed. It came from the right side of the alleyway, where it branched into another. Harry crept forward, kicking himself for not grabbing the Invisibility Cloak. 

Harry thought for a moment. What was the incantation? Hermione had made him learn it for N.E.W.T.s, but he’d never been particularly interested, what with his possession of a Deathly Hallow and all.

Harry closed his eyes and flicked his wand at himself, _Illusiont._

He felt the curious, cold feeling immediately, like an egg had been cracked over his head. He held his hand in front of his face, and he could see only the wall behind it.

Assured now of his invisibility, Harry crept further toward the noise.

The alleyway adjoining the Hog’s Head, the one the noise had come from, ended in a dead end and a dumpster. Harry frowned. Where had the sound come from?

Harry flicked his wand. _Specialis Revelio,_

For a moment, the outline of what looked like an entire crowd glowed behind the walls. As he watched, one of them detached from the others and started to walk toward him.

Suddenly, a head popped out of the wall a few feet ahead of Harry and looked up and down the alleyway. Harry instinctively shrank back.

The head belonged to an older man with dreads and an irritated expression. He sighed. “Invisible, are ye? Well, you wanna come or not?”

“Yeah,” Harry said on impulse, too quickly to backtrack. What if Malfoy wasn’t even inside?

“Then take off that ridiculous Charm and follow me.” The man let out a sigh and disappeared back behind the wall.

Harry took a deep breath, deactivated the Charm, and stepped inside.

“Harry Potter, eh?” the man asked, looking him up and down. “Welcome to Quarantine.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Harry said, but the man had already disappeared into the tumultuous crowd around the bar.

Harry wondered whether he should step back through the wall. News of his whereabouts would certainly spread, and he couldn’t bear to see another article in the _Daily Prophet_ from someone who claimed to watch him toss back shots while choking back tears.

Luckily, everyone seemed to engrossed in their own activities to notice him, at least for now. Most of them had barely glanced in his direction when he came in, and the lighting was dark enough that he didn’t look quite as distinctive as he normally did.

Glitter floated through the air, and the floor he walked upon had been enchanted to glow alternating colors, expanding and contracting like a disorienting kaleidoscope. To one side of the entryway stood the bar, with brightly colored drinks that glowed and fizzled in their glasses. Most of the clubgoers were dressed in typical Muggle clothes, and they seemed to be having the time of their lives, chattering and laughing uproariously, their voices drowned out by the thumping music.

To his right, the floor opened up, and people were dancing. There were couples all over the floor, spinning and twirling in each other’s arms, or simply holding each other.

“Don’t they care about the quarantine?” Harry asked aloud.

A woman with metallic purple eyeshadow paused from delivering a tray of drinks. “Wizards don’t get Muggle diseases! Here—” she shoved a bright pink drink into his hand. “Have some fun!”

Harry glared at the glass, disgusted. He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t be seen here. These were exactly the kind fo selfish, sycophantic people who had cozied up to him the minute Voldemort’s body started to rot. He couldn’t pretend to be one of them, nor could he pretend that so many of them had willfully ignored the call to fight when the Battle of Hogwarts began.

Still. This _did_ seem like Malfoy’s scene. He leaned in close to the waitress, until he saw her eyes catch on the scar across his forehead. Her mouth fell open into a perfect ‘O.’ “I’m looking for someone. Blonde hair, snooty expression? Slytherin?”

She shook herself. “You must be talking about Mr. Malfoy. Draco is on the upper level. Should I let him know you’re coming?”

“I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me.”

She batted her eyelashes. “I’m sure anyone would be honored to get a visit from the great Harry—"

“I will give you a thousand Galleons if you don’t finish that sentence.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll be at the exit when you leave.” 

“Deal.” Harry pushed past her and began to shove his way through the crowd, which finally thinned out as he approached the staircase. He held onto the railing as he climbed the steps, looking around to make sure no one was watching him. 

He had to admit, everyone looked like they were having a great time. The press of bodies was packed so tightly, it was difficult to find room. Couples were making out all over the dance floor, and he was certain that the party wouldn’t end here for most of them.

He wondered if Draco was dancing on the balcony, his tongue shoved down the throat of some poor girl, one he’d probably told all manner of sweet things, running her hands through that bright blonde hair, feeling his lips pressed against her neck—

Harry felt a surge of hatred. Maybe he should just leave Malfoy to his fate. Maybe contracting a “Muggle disease” would be a fitting and ironic way for him to die.

Well, he’d come all this way. The least he could do is have a go at Malfoy first.

Harry climbed the stairs, his feet pounding on the rungs, feeling the music pulse through his body, along with the rising surge of his hatred.

When he arrived on the level, he spotted Malfoy in an instant. He was indeed dancing, wrapped closely around a man who was even taller than him, built like a rugby player, with a scar across his left cheek. As Harry watched, Malfoy leaned up and latched his lips onto the man’s neck. The man threw back his head in pleasure.

“Malfoy,” Harry muttered, trying to ignore the tightness in his pants, to convince himself it was nothing more than the mood of the club. “What the hell?”

He made his way through the crowd as Malfoy’s lips moved against the man’s neck, his blonde hair streaked with sweat. He was wearing a silk dressing gown over his pajamas, but he made it look elegant and sensual as he reached up to pull the other man closer.

Harry had to get right in front of them before they noticed him, and it was Malfoy who noticed him first, his bright blue eyes widening.

“Time to go, Malfoy.” Harry grabbed his arm, but the other boy was incredibly strong. It was like trying to move stone.

Malfoy took his mouth off of the man’s neck and looked Harry up and down, a sly grin curling across his features. “Harry,” he purred.

Harry’s eyes met his. The other’s were wide and almost completely black, and there was some dark red substance staining his lips. Harry felt a sudden urge to reach for them, run his fingers along those lips, see what they _tasted_ like. “Malfoy—"

And the man immediately crumpled to the ground.

Harry snapped out of his trance and dropped too, feeling desperately for a pulse. “What the Hell—what did you—” his hands scrabbled at the man’s neck, but they were covered in something warm, something with a rusty, salty smell.

“Blood? Why is there blood? _What did you do?_ ” 

“Ugh. Fuck me.” Malfoy’s voice seemed to come from far away; Harry was feeling at the man’s neck now for the wound, two puncture marks that leaked the blood like water through a sieve. He started a spell—

A hand grabbed his chin, and he was suddenly staring into a pair of dark eyes, eyes that seemed to be glowing with an inner light, anchoring him, drowning him.

He was so tired.

_“Go to sleep,”_ a voice said. _“You are in your bed, asleep.”_

He couldn’t keep his eyes open.

_“Yes, rest. Rest, Harry Potter._ ”

Harry was so tired, and his bed was so soft--

Wait—he wasn’t in his dormitory; he was in the Room of Requirement-- 

“ _Don’t worry, just sleep. You will remember nothing…”_

No, that wasn’t right; he’d come to Hogsmeade, to find Malfoy—

_Malfoy—_

The man’s neck, covered in blood.

“No!” Harry shouted, snapping out of the compulsion.

“Fuck. _Stupefy!”_

And Harry knew no more.

**DRACO**

_Shit._

Of course Potter had to follow him. He’d been too crazed with hunger to bother hiding where he was going, and Potter always had that obnoxious affinity for sheer dumb luck.

Of course Potter would be impervious to compulsion. He’d already proven himself able to throw off the Imperius Curse with hardly any training, because he was just _that heroic._

Honestly, all the righteousness made Draco want to vomit. It made him want to corner Harry and just—kiss the living daylights out of him.

Draco shook his head. He needed to focus. Harry was lying on his bed, unconscious. Draco had managed to Disapparate them both out of the bar and into the Hog’s Head, and then it had been a simple levitation spell through the darkness.

He chewed his lip, which was still plump from sucking the blood out of his last victim. He’d nearly killed the bloke, taken his blood beyond what a Blood Replenishing Potion could remedy.

Didn’t matter that the guy had volunteered. Didn’t matter that he’d seemed more attracted to Draco when he’d revealed his fangs, not less.

With a flash, Draco remembered the Battle of Hogwarts again, the frenzy that overtook him as he ripped into wounded victim after wounded victim, feeding and feeding, his vision tinted red, seeing nothing but paper-thin flesh, veins like underground springs begging to be tapped.

He didn’t know how many he had killed. Like a coward, he had turned away from the bodies when he was sated, spoken not a word to his parents as they led him back to their mansion, looked away from the casualty lists that adorned the _Daily Prophet._

All he knew was that if anyone from the Ministry knew exactly what he had really done, he wouldn’t even be put in a cell. He’d be put down, like a rabid animal.

What would Potter do, now that he knew what Draco was? What he had become?

Potter had always thought of Draco as a monster, someone concerned with only his own gain and saving his own skin, no matter who bled as a result.

He didn’t know how right he was.

The Stunning Spell had worn off quickly, so Draco had given him a Simple Sleeping Draught to keep him out for longer. Harry slept with his mouth wide open, emitting an occasional grunt or whimper.

Draco checked his watch. The sun was already starting to turn the room gray, light filtering through the window next to Potter’s bed. Potter would be coming around any moment now…

Potter jerked awake, and in an instant, their first spells had collided off each other.

“Stop!” Draco shouted, blocking Potter’s Stunning Spell. “Let me explain.” 

“You’re—killing—people,” Potter panted, diving behind his bed and launching another attack.

“I’m not. Listen to me.”

“ _Expelliarmus!”_

Blocked again. , Predictable as always.” Draco dodged a Body Bind Curse. “Just listen to me.”

“Can’t trust you.” Potter hissed, but he’d stopped casting and only circled Draco warily, his wand pointed at his chest.

“Look.” Draco dropped his wand, letting it roll on the floor over to the corner. “I’m unarmed. I’m not trying to attack you.”

“You’re a vampire! You— _are—_ a weapon.”

“I thought I was a monster.” Draco smiled wryly, trying to pretend the words hadn’t cut him. 

Harry looked at him for a long moment, then lowered his wand. He sat on the bed and crossed his arms. “So?”

“What?”

“I’m listening! Tell me your grand explanation for trying to kill that guy last night!”

“I wasn’t trying to kill him. I was just— _hungry.”_

Potter sat back, comprehension breaking across his features. “We’ve been in quarantine. How often do you need to—”

“Every day. I had a stash saved up, but—” Draco gestured helplessly at their surroundings.

“Does it have to be—”

“Yes,” Draco looked away so that Potter wouldn’t know the whole truth. He could get blood from any human with a heartbeat, true. That had been well established.

But he’d quickly learned there was something—sweeter about it if it was someone he was attracted to. If it was someone he drank from in the throes of passion, or the lingering aftertaste of a kiss…

He certainly didn’t want Potter to know things like that, especially since—Potter ran a hand through his hair so that it got even more ruffled, and Draco’s mouth watered.

“Malfoy? Something you want to say?” Harry snapped his fingers.

“What? No.”

“What are you not telling me?”

“Nothing, Harry okay? I’m a bloodsucking monster, which you’ve probably thought since I was eleven anyway, so—”

“Did you ever drink from me?” 

_I wish._ “No.”

“Does it have to be a wizard? Can you get blood from any human being?”

Draco looked down. “I can live with any human blood. But if I’m—attracted to them. It’s…”

“Better.” Harry finished.

Draco looked up. Harry was watching him, but with none of the hostility of before. His brow was furrowed, and his fingers were tapping a staccato rhythm on his thigh. “Can you--hypnotize people?”

“I can compel most people.” Draco said. “Not you, apparently.”

Harry laughed. “I’m stubborn like that.”

“You never do what I want you do.”

“Like lose at Quidditch?”

“Like leave me the fuck alone.” Draco laid back on the bed and flung his hand over his eyes. “You’re so _aggravating.”_

Harry was silent for a moment. “I don’t mean to be,” he said finally. “But—you’re a _vampire!”_

“Don’t be so dramatic, Potter.” Draco retorted, still staring at the ceiling.

“You can’t die.”

“Hundreds of years of lore would have me believe otherwise.” 

“But you’re immortal?”

“I dunno.” Draco rolled over to look at Harry. “Do I look older to you?”

Harry shook his head. “You look—better than you have. Healthier.”

“Well. I _was_ starving.”

“Are you—I mean—do you have to—kill anyone?”

“No.” Draco looked back up at the ceiling. “I don’t have to.”

Harry’s next question was spoken soft and quickly, as though he was afraid of the answer. “Do you want— _me_?”

Draco sat up so fast, he got dizzy. “Are you asking if I fancy you?”

“Just.” Harry bit his lip. “If we’re going to stay here together, we need to set some ground rules. Especially if you’re tempted—"

“ _Tempted?_ Not everyone fancies you, Potter.” Draco sneered. “That heroic attitude is a turnoff for some of us.”

“But—” Harry shook his head. “Never mind.”

But Draco wouldn’t let it go. He couldn’t. “What makes you think that I want you?”

“I—it was a stupid question, Draco! Let it go!” Harry was turning bright red, which was unbelievably attractive for a variety of reasons.

“Narcissist.” Draco murmured softly, just to see the color deepen. “Not everyone is in love with you.” 

Harry drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his hands around them. “Still. You can’t just go into Hogsmeade every time you’re hungry. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Draco said helplessly.

“But here I am, living in the same room as you, human blood bag and all.” 

“Told you, Potter. I _don’t_ fancy you. At all.” It was getting harder and harder to say those words. Draco wished Potter would just stake him and get it over with. 

“Better than nothing!” Harry held his arms out. “So is it just a matter of time? Am I going to wake up with your fangs in my throat?” He blushed.

“I can control myself.” Draco said, trying not to watch as the flush crept all the way down his neck. “Vampires can go weeks without blood before they start to desiccate.”

“And if we’re here longer than that?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe if I went to McGonagall—”

_“Don’t.”_ Draco hated how his voice sounded, how lost and vulnerable. “You can’t tell anyone about this. Ever.”

“Draco, I’m sure that—”

“You don’t understand. I’m a monster. If my father knew about this, if anyone—” Draco felt tears spring to the corners of his eyes. He laid back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, so that Harry wouldn’t see. “You have to promise.”

Harry was silent for a moment. “Maybe they wouldn’t hate you as much as you think.”

“All due respect, Chosen One, but you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Harry took a deep breath. “I’ll help you, Draco. In whatever way I can. But you can’t go out. Clubs like that are breeding grounds for the virus.”

“I can’t get the virus.”

“But I can.” A hint of humor entered his voice. “And you said you didn’t have to kill anyone.”

Draco huffed. His eyelids were getting so heavy, and these beds really were spectacularly soft. “I wouldn’t mind killing you.” He half-mumbled. “It would give me some peace and quiet, at least.”

Harry said something else, but Draco didn’t hear it. He was already fast asleep.

His dreams were haunted by dark green eyes, black hair, bright pink lips.

And the warm taste of blood. 


	5. Chapter 5: "But what if I wanted you to?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Edward Cullen voice*: You're like my own personal brand of heroin.
> 
> The quarantine drags on. Draco's situation becomes dire. Harry helps him out. For unselfish and entirely philanthropic reasons, obviously. ;)
> 
> I'm having a great time with this. Hopefully y'all are too. Shout out to @tearinmyarc for editing, especially since I'm currently out of my mind on Benadryl bc pollen is a BITCH.

**Chapter 5: “What if I wanted you to?”**

**HARRY**

Harry and Draco had settled into a tentative truce over the past few days. Stuck as they were in quarantine, it had become obvious that they needed to establish a few ground rules in order to avoid killing each other. Especially since Draco was apparently designed to kill people.

They settled on their separate sides of the room, and Harry hung a tasteful curtain between them for privacy. At first, they’d kept to their separate corners; Draco had even taken to sending over paper notes rather than bothering to speak with him directly. Whenever Harry argued aloud, the paper would just shout, “FUCK OFF,” in Draco’s voice before bursting into flames.

Harry did _not_ find these missives amusing. For a day or so, he stopped communicating with Draco altogether.

But Harry couldn’t freeze Draco out; he was too bored.

It just made more sense for them to do things together. They were eating breakfast at the same time (well, for Draco it was tea, but it was something), so it made sense to sit next each other at the little table next to the kitchen, for only one person to do the washing up. 

Of course, they started off with completely different hobbies, opposite daily routines. When Harry read, Draco exercised. When Draco practiced spells, Harry watched _Game of Thrones._ After all, it would be antithetical for Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter to have anything in common, even accidentally.

But then Malfoy heard Harry’s television blaring _Game of Thrones_ a little too loud, and he finally stalked over, snarling that dragons never acted like that and why were people so hard on Jaime Lannister anyway?

So they ended up moving the television to the middle of the room, where Harry conjured a couch. Draco pulled over a few blankets from his side (adorned in Slytherin colors, of course) and they took up their opposite ends with a businesslike attitude, barely speaking except when Draco asked questions; he was behind, and he refused to catch up on his own.

During the sex scenes, Harry studiously studied the carpet, willing himself to think of anything but Draco in one of Petyr Baelish’s brothels…

Which was a thought he shouldn’t be having _at all_ , since he and Draco were mortal enemies.

_The isolation is just getting to me,_ Harry told himself. _As soon as I see another person, this will all go away. I’m just bored._

But his dreams had been featuring Draco a lot lately. In a way that made Harry devoutly thankful that Draco was not an accomplished Legilimens.

In spite of Harry and Draco’s resistance, the lines between them were becoming increasingly blurred. It seemed like it took a lot more effort to stay apart than to be together. Draco was studying a Switching Spell for N.E.W.T.s, and he needed someone to practice on (at first, Harry had been supremely resistant to this; letting Draco curse him went against everything he had learned since the age of eleven), and Harry had wanted to practice levitation…

Or, they both needed exercise, and Harry could only spend so much time doing press-ups alone, and they were both in training for Quidditch finals.

This had led to both boys’ arms giving out after dozens of endurance contests, lying next to each other on the polished wooden floor. Harry decided quickly that this exact type of competition could not continue; listening to Malfoy’s harsh breathing as he exercised was…distracting. So Harry had challenged him to wall ball.

They’d started making up all kinds of ridiculous rules. You had to make yourself fly to touch the wall. You could create illusions to distract your opponent from where the ball was. You could only use your feet to move the ball. Malfoy was a helpless cheater; he kept Summoning the ball and casting Repulsion Charms, and several times he’d nearly tackled Harry in his effort to get to the wall first.

McGonagall sent her Patronus to check in on them every few days, but their conversations were short and unproductive. Her Patronus merely delivered information, and it was always the same: cases were increasing, it still wasn’t safe, they didn’t know how long it would take, and more were dying every day. “Do you need anything?” the Patronus always asked last, but Harry couldn’t think of anything that was actually necessary.

Harry was sure that she and Trelawney were taking bets on which of them would kill the other first.

And the quarantine dragged on and on…

After another week, Harry could tell that Draco was getting desperately hungry again. He kept watching Harry eat, and he sounded as though he were having nightmares. 

One day, Harry caught him coming back after sneaking out through the secret passage. His hair was ruffled, but he looked as pale and sickly as ever. “They closed Quarantine.” Draco said. “How’s that for ironic?”

“You shouldn’t have gone out.” 

“I’m dying!” Draco snapped. “Not that it seems to bother you at all.”

“You can’t spread it—”

“You said you’d help me, but you’re just watching me die!” 

Harry frowned. “Maybe there’s someone in the castle. Someone we can get you to—”

“Same problem as going out there. Contamination. Infection.”

“There’s gotta be a way.” Harry said. He took Draco by the shoulder, guided him toward his bed. Draco must have been exhausted, because he crawled under the covers without a word of complaint. “Get some rest. I’ll think of something.”

Draco just scowled. “You can’t save everyone, Potter.” He closed his eyes and was immediately asleep, too exhausted from his efforts to argue any further.

_I don’t_ want _to save you,_ Harry thought, studying the dark blue shadows under his eye, the purplish tinge to his skin. He remembered the dreams he’d been having, dreams where Draco swooped down on him, and the air tasted like sex and blood. _I just want you. And I can’t stop wanting._

They’d been in the Room of Requirement for sixteen days when Harry allowed himself to say it, the thought that had been chasing itself around in his head since the beginning, since he’d first seen Draco’s lips latched around the neck of that man in the club.

They were tired and sweaty from wall ball, and Draco was laying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. His white t-shirt was a little see-through, stuck to him with sweat. Lately, the tiniest athletic activity seemed to exhaust him.

Harry sat down on his bed, feeling his heart race as he tried to form the words. Draco went still, frozen, the ball still clutched in one long-fingered hand.

And Harry said it, his eyes following Draco’s tongue as he licked some of the sweat from his lip. “What if you drank from me?”

Draco tossed the ball up and caught it, his face expressionless. “Told you I don’t fancy you.”

“You’ll die without it. You’re already dying.”

“I’m not drinking from you, Potter. I won’t give you the satisfaction.” 

“I don’t mind, really.” Harry said. “If it’s the only thing to keep you alive. I said I’d help you—”

“You aren’t saving me again.” Draco caught the ball and squeezed it so hard, he popped the rubber open. “It’s not worth it.”

Harry watched another rivulet of sweat trickle down Draco’s neck. “What if I wanted you to?”

Draco dropped the ball. Harry could see his shoulders tense beneath his shirt. “Don’t fuck with me, Potter. It’s beneath you.”

“I’m serious.” Harry could feel himself blushing, but there was no going back now. “I want you to.”

**DRACO**

This had to be a dream. Or a bloody nightmare.

Draco had certainly had dreams like this, where Potter was laid out beneath him, and he’d sunk his fangs in and tasted his blood as it pulsed down his throat, dreams that always happened just before he woke, to the real Potter watching him with that curious expression, like Draco was an Arithmancy problem that needed solving.

He wondered if he should pinch himself now; would it be too obvious? This had to be a dream.

Then again, never in Draco’s wildest dreams had he imagined Potter would _ask,_ that he _wanted_ —

“Are you saying you fancy me?”

Harry mumbled indistinctly.

“Speak up, Potter.” _I want to hear this. If only so I can put this memory in a Pensieve and revisit it for the rest of my wretched, immortal life._

“Everyone knows you’re hot, _Draco._ ” Harry said finally. “It’s not like I’m blind.”

“I seem to recall a certain beautiful Weasley girl thinking exactly that about you.”

“Leave Ginny out of this.”

Draco rolled over, propping his head up with one hand. That effort alone exhausted him; he’d become so weak. The thought of Harry offering, of finally wanting what Draco himself had dared to want, was making him even more light-headed.

Every day, Draco thought about immobilizing Harry and drinking until he was finally sated. Every night, he had to practically chain himself to his bed so as not to slither into Harry’s.

And now—

If Harry was being serious, Draco was going to make sure. He wouldn’t be made a fool of by Harry Potter.

Draco Malfoy had to hold all the cards. “She didn’t take you back after the battle, did she?”

“I—this isn’t about her. Do you want to drink my blood or not?”

“I want to know why you’re doing this. Having me desiccated, dried up, unable to cause any trouble--isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? You and Ginny can fly off into the sunset—”

“I said, leave her out of this!”

But Draco had Harry in his teeth now; he could tell by the way his green eyes flashed, the way his hands were clenched into fists. Draco couldn’t let go. “She couldn’t forgive you, could she? For dumping her after Dumbledore died, leaving her in the dark for an entire year? You decided to be noble and cut her loose, but you didn’t think about how she’d feel. You imploded, and didn’t consider that she’d be hit with the shrapnel—”

“I was trying to protect her!” Harry shouted. “She was better off without me.” His eyes flashed. “ _Everyone’s_ better off…”

Draco sat up. “Exactly. You’re thorny; you cut open anything you touch, anyone you love. You’re just a weakness.”

“Love is not a weakness.”

“Of course not; it’s powerful. It’s part of the game. It obliterates, just like everything else. It defeats and is defeated, just like everything else. So why did you take yourself off the board, Potter? Why push everyone who loves you— _the Chosen One—_ away?”

Harry’s hands shook. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Draco got to his feet and walked over to Harry, so that he was standing right in front of him, where his legs dangled over the edge of the bed. Draco leaned down to whisper in his ear, placing his hands on either side of him on the bed, and Harry _shivered._ Draco could smell his blood, feel the heat that radiated from his skin. He could hear Potter’s heart speed up, a withering drum of rhythm and excitement.

“I’ll tell you why,” Draco grazed his hands across Harry’s neck, and Harry sighed. “It’s because you’ve noticed that love only _destroys_ when it surrounds _you_. For other people, love saves. Love is connection and happiness. Love is a lifeline. But for you,” he pressed his lips against Harry’s neck, his fangs only pulling at the surface of his skin, still not breaking it. “For you, those who love you only get the bad end. When they’re too close, they burn up. Better to be far away, and bathe in the light of having known you, having been near the Chosen One, but not close enough for it to hurt, to burn—” He pressed a soft kiss to Harry’s throat, hardly able to believe what he was doing. “I know it, Harry. I know it all too well.” He held his fangs an inch from Harry’s skin, and the other boy trembled, but he didn’t move.

“Are you going to do it?” Harry asked finally. 

“I won’t take your blood until you’re begging me, Harry Potter,” Draco growled. “I’m not going to be another monster in the dark for you. If you want me to bite into your neck, to feel me suck and take until you’re half-mad with it, you have to ask. You have to say it.”

“Still don’t want me to be the hero?” Harry said shakily, but his hands reached up to reach around Draco’s waist, so that Draco had to climb onto his lap. Draco was now nearly straddling Harry, and he could feel Harry’s hardness against his own. His hands slid from the bed to Harry’s back, but he held him lightly, nearly trembling with restraint.

“No one gets to be the hero in this.” Draco said. “We’re in this together.” He nipped at Harry’s neck, enough to raise a welt on Harry’s skin.

Harry’s response was sudden and instant. He pulled Draco in even closer, until he could whisper in his ear. “Drink from me, Draco. Take—whatever you want. Take it—I—please. I want you. I want it.”

Draco’s teeth sank in effortlessly, applying the barest amount of force to puncture Potter’s skin, and immediately the blood started to flow from Harry’s veins into Draco’s mouth, down his throat.

Draco wrapped his arms tightly around Harry, the blood hitting him with a sudden wave of ecstasy. He’d been attracted to the guy in the bar, sure but this was _Harry fucking Potter._ And it had been so _long._ And he tasted so _good._

Draco didn’t want to stop. He didn’t think he ever could stop.

**HARRY**

Harry didn’t know anything about vampire venom. He hadn’t bothered to learn; he had basically slept through Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. It wasn’t like anyone was going to fail the person who’d killed the Dark Lord.

But there must have been something in Draco’s bite, some kind of relaxing and attracting agent, because Harry felt a surge of arousal hit his body, which already felt like it was going to burst, the moment Draco’s teeth broke through the skin of his neck. He moaned and went limp, his hands scrabbling at Draco’s back weakly, barely hanging on amid the flow of pleasure that coursed through his body.

His dick was hard and throbbing, and the pressure only seemed to be building as Draco pressed himself against Harry harder, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing him as though he were a human blood bag, and he wanted to swallow every last drop.

Draco stopped for a moment to lick at some of the blood that had trickled down Harry’s neck, the movement causing him to grind against Harry just enough for Harry’s orgasm to burst through the surface, crashing through his consciousness, wave after wave, until he was trembling in Draco’s arms, “Let it out,” Draco hissed through it, in between long drinks from his neck. “Let go, I’ve got you.”

When his orgasm finally receded, each wave a little bit weaker than the last, Harry’s limbs felt like lead. He could barely open his eyes. And Draco was still sucking the blood from his neck, making obscene little guzzling noises every few moments.

Harry wondered if he would die like this, if Draco had planned this, a way to finally kill the famous Harry Potter. “Draco—” he whispered, trying to tell him that he was passing out, but he couldn’t say anything more. The world was turning fuzzy at the edges, and Draco was still drinking and drinking like he would never stop.

_If this is dying,_ Harry thought, _This isn’t so bad._

The fuzziness turned to a velvety soft blackness, taking over Harry’s vision bit by bit until he finally sank into it, and knew nothing more.


	6. Chapter 6: Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry wake up the next morning to dire news from Professor McGonagall. Introspection and desperation ensue. They talk to a portrait. It's real sad. 
> 
> Shout out to @tearinmyarc for being like 'what the fuck is that' and me being like 'understandable, lemme change it.' 
> 
> (I quote DH and HBP a lot, so uh--credit to JKR, except not really bc they're mine now. bye.)
> 
> Obviously this isn't the last chapter. I'm not even sure if we're gonna have 8 chapters. I don't know y'all. The story's taking me in a lot of directions I didn't expect. 
> 
> Things to listen to during this chapter:
> 
> Queen of the Night by Hey Violet  
> It Is What It Is by Mayday Parade

CHAPTER 6: Reprieve

**DRACO**

McGonagall arrived the next day in person, having cast a Bubble Head charm around herself as a precaution.

It painted a curious picture: Minerva McGonagall, the brightest witch of her Hogwarts class, looking for all the world like one of those Muggle pet fish.

But the humor was short lived. When she arrived, her eyebrows were set closely together, and her mouth was a thin, firm line.

And Draco knew what she was going to say before she said it.

“Mr. Malfoy, your parents have sent you a message. Your mother has fallen ill and requests you come home at once.”

A chill went down Draco’s spine. “With corona virus?”

“No. The letter indicated that she had been ill for some time, and it has worsened.” Her eyes blinked at him behind the spectacles. “Is there something I should know, Mr. Malfoy?”

“When can I leave?” Malfoy asked, ignoring the question.

McGonagall took a deep breath, then looked around. “Wait—is Potter awake? He shouldn’t be listening to this conversation. This is confidential information.”

“We—that is to say—he—was up late last night,” Draco willed himself not to glance at Potter, and betray the whole game. “ _Game of Thrones,”_ he added hastily. “Just some stupid Muggle show.”

The corner of McGonagall’s mouth twitched. “I see. Well, as Potter has a particular talent for eavesdropping— _Muffilato—_ there. That ought to work.”

Draco thought he saw Harry move, but he willed himself to look back at Professor McGonagall. He didn’t know how to explain what had happened last night. He wasn’t sure he _could_ explain it.

All he knew was that Potter had the sweetest blood he’d ever tasted.

All he knew is that he didn’t ever want to stop.

Draco’s blood went cold at how close he’d come. He’d been dimly aware of something amiss, some voice at the back of his mind telling him to pay attention. Then he’d noticed that the noises Potter had been making, those noises that lit his entire body afire, had stopped.

He’d snapped into reality, terror freezing his arousal in its tracks. Potter was sagging against him. He’d passed out. And he was so pale—

Draco had revived him long enough to shove a Blood Replenishing Potion down his throat, then tucked him into bed.

He hadn’t been able to fall asleep; the newfound nourishment was coursing through his veins, giving him a burst of energy.

And then there was the small matter of Potter climaxing from the mere hint of pressure, from Draco’s fangs sunk into his throat.

Draco certainly kept himself busy for an hour or so after that, reliving the experience. Imagining what would have happened if he’d waited a little while to drink, if Potter had laid _him_ on the bed and kissed _his_ neck, made _Draco’s_ lips bright pink and so well-bitten that they nearly swelled.

Draco shook his head at the memory. He had to forget it. He had nearly killed Harry, nearly drained his body of its blood, and who knew how close he’d come next time? Who knew how easily he could have drank and drank, until no amount of potions or spells could bring him back?

_I’ve always thought that he would be the death of me,_ Malfoy thought, remembering that day in the bathroom, the blood that had burst across his chest and abdomen, Potter’s hands scrabbling desperately at his shirt. “ _No—I didn’t—”_ he’d said. _“I didn’t want—”_

_It’s never what we want, but it is what it is,_ Malfoy thought. _We will be the death of each other._

“Mr. Malfoy? Mr. Malfoy, are you listening to me?”

Draco snapped himself back into the present. “Sorry, Professor. I was distracted.”

McGonagall was about to say something else, but Draco interrupted her. “When can I go?”

_“_ Well, that’s what I was trying to tell you. Since we have a mandatory lockdown, and your mother’s immune system might not be able to handle exposure—”

“I’ve been in quarantine for over two weeks. If I had symptoms, I’d show them by now.”

McGonagall shook her head. “Leaving the castle would put you, and everyone you come into contact with, in danger. You will risk exposure to the virus once again, and you could then expose anyone you come into contact with. Draco,” she said, her voice softening the tiniest bit, “The best thing you can do for your family is to stay away from them.”

“I won’t get them infected. I’m certain of it.”

“And how can you be so certain?”

“Because”—Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Because—” he could hear the blood in McGonagall’s veins moving. He could nearly _feel_ Potter breathing in his bed, the heartbeat that had sped up when McGonagall had cast _Muffilato._

And already, he was beginning to get hungry. 

“I—I just know.”

“You. Just. Know?”

“Yes, Professor.”

McGonagall sighed, exasperated. “Draco, you are one of the brightest students in your year. If you believe this so ardently, you must have a prevailing scientific reason, an awareness of some magic that protects you. What is that magic?”

Draco was silent. He wasn’t about to tell anyone he was a vampire. Perhaps if he simply agreed to McGonagall’s terms now. Perhaps if he snuck into Hogsmeade while Potter was asleep and Disapparated—

“There are Caterwauling and anti-Apparition Charms around Hogwarts and the whole of the surrounding communities.” McGonagall said. “You will not leave this castle undetected.”

“How did you--“

“I have been a teacher for forty-one years, Mr. Malfoy. Please do not underestimate my ability to read young minds.”

“Well—you can’t stop me from seeing my parents. I’m seventeen!”

“Which means you are subject to the same laws as everybody else. It is about time you learned to abide by them.”

This was so ironic that Draco simply laughed, gesturing to where Potter was clearly attempting to eavesdrop even though he’d been Charmed. “You want to lecture _me_ about being above the law, Professor McGonagall?”

“Enough!” McGonagall’s eyes flashed, and her glare was more terrifying than he’d seen it since she’d been mid-curse during the Battle of Hogwarts. “I am going to set up a way for you to communicate directly with your parents, but you still are forbidden to see them.” 

“What if I didn’t use public transportation?” Draco said, ignoring this. “I could go in, come right back. Easy.”

“Floo Powder is banned as a form of travel. We are only allowed to travel through Muggle means, and since most of the muggle transportation is either faulty, lengthy, or defective, we are confined to this area for the time being.”

“Why?” Draco could feel tears starting behind his eyes, but he pushed them back.

“It is not just about saving your life, Malfoy. It is about saving others.”

“Please, Professor.” Draco felt a tear escape and trickle down his cheek. “It might be my last chance to see them. _Please.”_

“Unless you can give me a reason why you, out of anyone else, can neither carry nor imbibe a virus, you will not be able to see them.”

Draco opened his mouth and closed it again without saying anything.

“Exactly. I’m glad you’re starting to see reason. And Potter.” She waved her wand, and Harry rolled over sleepily, rubbing his eyes. “Make sure Malfoy doesn’t leave.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry mumbled.

“And Potter—try not to kill him, won’t you?”

Harry blushed a deep red. “I—”

“Good. I will bring technology for communication with your parents shortly.”

McGonagall threw open the door and vanished back into the hallway

“Why do I have to keep you from leaving? You could infect your mother—you know that, right?” Harry said.

“Well, it’s been over two weeks,” Draco was pulling on his socks and shoes, checking his hair’s appearance in the mirror (the previous evening had messed it up spectacularly).

“What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to look presentable.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.” Harry said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Not for you.” Harry said. “For everyone else. You don’t know if you’re still carrying the virus. You could pick it up on the subway, or in Hogsmeade, and then—”

“Look.” Draco turned to him. “I’m going. You can either get out of my way, or I can make you.” His fangs slid down over his lips.

Harry drew his wand. “You think you can take me, Malfoy?” The corner of his mouth curled into a cocky smirk, and Draco wanted to bite the dimple that appeared on his cheek.

Draco shook the feelings away. He couldn’t feel this way about Potter anymore. He was his enemy, his adversary.

His mother—his family—was what mattered. Potter was—nothing.

He was just in the way.

Malfoy’s lip curled. “I know I can. I am something you’re not, that you’ll never be.”

“And what’s that? A vampire?” Potter cast a curse, and Malfoy swept it aside easily.

He crossed the room and wrenched Potter’s wand out of his hand, then cast a curse that forced him to his knees.

“Fucking ruthless.” Draco said, just before he struck, with his full weight behind the blow.

Potter slumped forward, unconscious.

Draco looked at him, feeling a twinge of regret. He hadn’t meant to resort to brute force; he supposed he was still full of adrenaline from the news. Potter would have a horrible headache when he awoke…

“If you’d just listen,” Draco said aloud. “Maybe you wouldn’t always try to stop me.”

He went to the portrait of Ariana. She looked at him blankly, nearly as frozen as the Muggle photos.

“Well, you know what to do. What are you waiting for?”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” she asked. “Harry would understand.”

“Potter wouldn’t know a moral grey area if it hit him in the face.” Draco said. “Stopping me is the right thing to do. Always.”

“Should I stop you? I could, you know. This portal doesn’t open without my permission.”

“I don’t have a problem destroying this portrait.”

“But you’d have no way to get through,” said Ariana, unfazed.

“I’ll take my chances in the castle.” 

She smiled knowingly. “You are determined to have everyone think the worst of you. And yet, the mere fact that you fight so hard to save the ones you love proves that you are worth something.”

“What do you mean?”

She watched him carefully. “You’ve thought about it. I can tell.”

Draco looked down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you? Vampire blood can heal, after all. Perhaps a dose of yours will cure your mother’s condition. Perhaps, were she to die with your blood in her system, she would be able to join you forever—”

“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My brother had a fascination with mastering Death.” She said. “As did your old master. Do I need to tell you how it ended for them? The only true master of Death lies unconscious behind you, a master because he chose not to cheat Death. Because he accepted it with open arms, and did not try to go against nature--”

“You don’t _understand_.” Draco said. “Potter wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“I think that he would understand more than a lot of people.” Ariana said. “Why don’t you ask him?’

Draco glanced over at Harry. He was face down on the floor, but Draco could tell by the rise and fall of his back that he still breathed. He thought of the night before, the way Harry had clung to him, moaned his name. The longing that coursed through his blood, both Harry’s and his own, like they were feeding off each other, having finally stopped denying something they’d both felt for so long…

“No. I will not rest my mother’s life on Harry Potter.” Draco said. “Move, or I’ll blast you.”

Ariana still didn’t look afraid, but she turned and disappeared down the hallway without another word. The portrait swung open.

Draco took one last look at Harry before disappearing through it, wondering if he was making the right choice.

Wondering if it was possible to do the right thing when you were made to bring destruction.

**HARRY**

Harry’s head was throbbing. It felt like someone was banging a hammer on the inside of his skull.

For a heart-stopping moment, he thought the pain came from his scar. He lurched to his feet, groping desperately for his wand, thinking of the graveyard and Death Eaters and the rebirth of Voldemort—

After a moment, his heart rate started to return to normal. He remembered—Draco had been trying to leave, and Harry had been trying to stop him.

But why had Draco wanted to leave? Harry closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain. McGonagall had entered, said she had a message for Malfoy. Harry was feigning sleep; he’d woken up not long before that, feeling like he was resurfacing after a long time spent underwater.

_“Your mother has fallen ill…she has been for some time.”_

Malfoy’s mother was sick? Since when? Why hadn’t he said anything?

_“Love only destroys when it surrounds you.”_

Harry’s head throbbed, making it difficult to think. He must have been going to see her, but why? He should have known that journeying there would only put her more at risk.

He wished he’d tried to listen more, slept a little more convincingly before McGonagall had cast _Muffilato..._

He hadn’t been paying close attention. He’d been reliving the previous night in his head. Draco’s fangs sunk deep into his neck, that feeling of ecstasy that coursed through his body….

And the sinking, velvety blackness as Draco drank, until Harry’s limbs were sluiced in soft lead. Until his eyes had fluttered shut and stayed that way, and he’d sunk down and down…

He couldn’t believe it had happened.

He couldn’t believe how much he’d liked it.

It scared him that he’d liked it that much.

It scared him that he wanted it to happen again.

Of course, McGonagall’s _Muffilato_ charm had swept all of that out of his head. What else did they talk about that was too private for Harry’s ears? What was McGonagall hiding?

_“Make sure he doesn’t leave.”_

It didn’t matter why Draco was leaving; he was going to endanger himself and everyone around him if he was exposed to the virus. Harry had tried to stop him without question, but he hadn’t expected Draco to strike so quickly, so brutally, for all that desire and affection to be wiped out in a single instant—

_“Fucking ruthless.”_

Harry’s mind flashed to that night atop the tower. Malfoy had faced Dumbledore, trembling. And Dumbledore had simply surveyed him calmly, as though he weren’t dying, as though he weren’t defenseless. As though it was Malfoy who needed mercy. _“Let us discuss your options.”_

_“I haven’t got any options.” Malfoy was suddenly as white as Dumbledore. “He’ll kill me. He’ll kill my whole family!”_

Harry pushed his hands into his eyes until bursts of color appeared behind them. Draco had nearly killed Katie Bell, nearly poisoned Ron to death. And he’d set that trap for Dumbledore, at the top of the tallest tower, all because Voldemort would have killed his family otherwise…

But how could his family be in danger? What could Draco be doing to help them? Even if they didn’t have the virus, Draco should know that his best option would be to stay away—

_Unless he’s a vampire,_ Harry thought. _Which means he can’t get the virus. And he doesn’t have it now, because it’s past the quarantine period. And it wouldn’t matter if he picked it up on the way if—_

Harry’s wand was rolling across the floor, no doubt where it had been kicked during the struggle. He picked it up and turned it over and over in his fingers, thinking.

“Can vampire blood heal?” Harry said aloud. “How would he even get to them without being caught? Isn’t everything being monitored?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of a way,” said a voice. “He did.”

He turned. Ariana was leaning against her portrait frame. Harry jumped. She’d never really spoken to him before, at least so directly. “Did he tell you?” he asked. “Is he going by broom? Walking out for a place to Disapparate?”

“He left not very long ago.” Ariana said.

“His family—“ Harry’s fingers twitched. “Is it his blood? Is he trying to save her? Is that why he tried to leave?”

Ariana didn’t answer.

“Tell me!”

“Mr. Malfoy is a very vulnerable person. A lot like you, in fact.”

“Vulnerable—” Harry laughed incredulously. “He’s a _vampire._ He’s practically indestructible.”

“And you are the Chosen One,” she said sadly. “You are the Master of Death. You died, and here you stand. You have survived the Killing Curse not once, but twice. Both you and Draco might be indestructible, as you said. And yet, both you and Draco are held together by thinly stretched scars. The slightest blow, and you’ll bleed again. All those old wounds, the ones you pretend aren’t there, will reopen. And there will be no hiding.”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean?”

“Ariana Dumbledore died very young.” She said. “But her portrait is quite old, and people say a great deal when they believe nobody is listening.”

Harry reached for the portrait, then pulled his hand away. “The vampire blood won’t really bring them back—he has to know that. There is no cure for death—he’ll fail, or he’ll make it worse. Is that what he’s trying—tell me!”

“Why?”

“Because—” Harry stopped. Something was holding his breath in, keeping his words caught in his chest.

“Are you going to stop him, or are you going to help him?” Ariana asked. “Because Draco doesn’t need the Chosen One, Harry Potter. He just needs someone to hold his hand and tell him it’s going to be okay. Someone who has faced the unimaginable, and survived.”

Harry looked down. What was she saying? Draco needed—a friend? No, they were not friends. Not mortal enemies, not lovers, either—

But Harry and Draco definitely were something other than friends.

And he couldn’t help but remember the Battle of Hogwarts, when Lucius and Narcissa had not even bothered to defend themselves, simply running through the crowd, between the fighters, screaming for their son. “ _My son, My Lord. My son.”_ Lucius had _begged_ Voldemort to stop the battle to let him find Draco, no matter what it cost, no matter the Dark Lord’s plan. .

And it was Narcissa Malfoy who had bought Harry that extra time. _“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”—_ Narcissa who had made sure that Voldemort didn’t know his curse had failed a second time; Narcissa who had enabled Harry to leap free, to face Voldemort and destroy him, once and for all.

All to save her son. All because it was the best chance for Draco to live, no matter what happened to her, no matter what side ended up winning.

The entire world could have burned around them, and the Malfoys only wanted to save each other.

How could he care for someone as narrow-minded as that?

Then Harry remembered Dobby’s tennis ball eyes, dimming into nothing as the light left them. Sirius, his laugh still frozen on his face, as he fell through the veil. Dumbledore’s crumpled corpse at the bottom of the tower. Fred Weasley, laying in a pile of rubble, Percy trying to shield him with his body even though he was beyond help—

Harry remembered his parents as they’d appeared in that graveyard. During third year, when he’d secretly wanted to the dementor to stay longer, just to hear his mother’s voice—

Maybe he and Draco had experienced too much death to ever heal from it. Maybe the scars that the war had left would only ever bleed again. Maybe they were both too damaged, too broken and sunken into the rubble for normal life to ever lift them out of it—

Maybe it was wrong that they clung to the people they loved like a lifeline, terrified of the drowning that might occur when they let go-- 

Harry was not afraid of his own death, but he didn’t want anyone else to die for him again, to be blasted apart defending him, to spread their hands and take the blow meant for him, to tell a joke only for it to be their last…

Harry didn’t want anyone to die for him.

And neither did Draco.

“I don’t think he can save her,” Harry said. “But he has to try. If he doesn’t try—he’ll never be able to live with himself.”

Maybe they were too damaged to be close to anyone else, to feel close to someone ever again, but at least they understood each other.

They were two young boys, journeying through the Forbidden Forest, drawing closer to each other as the darkness pressed in from all sides.

They were teenage enemies, participants in a war bigger and darker than either imagined, spilling each other’s blood on a bathroom floor.

They were each other’s lifeblood, entwined on Harry’s bed.

And maybe they were all each other really had left.

Ariana didn’t say another word, but her eyes shone with understanding. The portrait swung open.

And Harry disappeared into the darkness, because wherever Draco Malfoy went, he had to follow.


	7. Malfoy Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for what's about to happen. But it's what needed to happen.
> 
> There is possibly only one more chapter (but who are we kidding? There's probably more). It's getting intense.Draco is at his breaking point. Harry knows what that means better than everyone.
> 
> thanks again to @tearinmyarc for helping edit, especially since I keep writing on Benadryl, which makes me sleep-write nonsense.

CHAPTER 7: Malfoy Manor

**DRACO**

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

Those were the words with which Lucius Malfoy greeted his son, after not contacting him for months. In the middle of a pandemic.

In the middle of his mother’s death.

Lucius looked through the wrought iron gate at Draco, who shuffled his feet nervously. He hadn’t dared to enter without his father’s permission, not since he’d been Turned. He always waited for someone else to walk through the gates first.

What if Malfoy Manor only opened to those who were truly human?

What if he wasn’t, even magically, a part of his family anymore.

Draco’s Patronus had been weak and sputtering, and it didn’t really have a corporeal form. It was some smallish, canine-like animal, but it was hard to tell what it was exactly. 

It didn’t matter; his father had rushed to the gate anyway, his wand and the moonlight lighting his way, not even bothering to comment on Draco’s inability to create a corporeal Patronus, an ability the rest of his family had easily recovered after Voldemort’s death.

Draco certainly wasn’t going to tell him what he thought his Patronus resembled.

And he certainly wasn’t going to reveal what happy memory he had relied on, either.

“It’s not safe.”

“I had to come!” Draco protested. “She’s dying.”

Lucius’ lips trembled. He pressed them together. His long white hair, usually thick and shiny, was in straggly strands, pulled back in a bun. The bones stood out sharply on his cheekbones, and his eyes had a sunken-in look to them

It was his father after Azkaban, magnified.

This was what his mother’s illness had done to him.

“Not only are we in the midst of a global pandemic,” Lucius hissed. “But your mother’s condition—”

“Can’t be passed to me! I know it! I’m safe from her.”

Lucius shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. The Healer assured me that you were vulnerable—" Lucius began to pace back and forth along the gate, twisting his hands in his hair, “Why would you come—”

“The Healer was lacking some information.” Draco swept on hurriedly. “Information that would save her.”

Lucius stopped. “What did you just say?”

“I can save her,” Draco saw hope, a ray of light, cross the wasteland of his father’s face. “Father. I can, trust me.”

His father blinked, and the darkness descended again. He crossed his arms. “How?”

“I—can’t tell you. Just let me in. Please.”

Lucius’ nostrils flared. “Our protections—they don’t detect the virus. What if you’ve been exposed to it?”

But Draco had already thought of this. “I flew the Thestral at 9,000 meters. I’ve been in quarantine for long enough that there’s no trace of it. I didn’t touch anything—"

“How could you have flown the Thestral at that height? Your body would not withstand it—”

“Air depressurization enchantments, the Bubble Head Charm—” Draco listed off his spells, knowing his father was impressed by the begrudging admiration gleaming on his face. He didn’t tell him that a regular human being probably wouldn’t have been able to withstand the conditions. Didn’t tell him that he hadn’t been sure if _he_ was going to survive it, only that he had to try…

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t somehow exposed—”

“Then test me! Test me right here, because I’m not going anywhere! Who _cares_ about the virus. Father—I can save her.”

“You can also kill her. Her condition attacks her immune system. If you are infected—”

Draco felt like crying. “I _can’t_ be infected.”

“Do not repeat that drivel at me. You and I both know that there are this virus does not distinguish between Muggles and wizards. Many purebloods have already fallen ill. I will not let your arrogance—”

Draco’s fangs slid down over his lips, and his father stopped talking. He squinted. It was difficult for anyone but a vampire to see this night; the moonlight provided only silvery shadows. Draco stepped forward, so that his father could see him properly. 

“What is that? Draco—what’s happened to your face?”

“I can’t be infected.” Draco said. “My blood, my cells—the virus affects humans. And I am not a human being anymore.”

Lucius took a step back, his eyes widening. “You’re—you’re—”

“A filthy half-breed.” Draco said bitterly. “A vampire.”

Lucius put his hand to his lips. “I—I don’t understand. When—”

“Sanguini. He—attacked me. During the Battle of Hogwarts—”

Lucius seemed at a loss for words. His eyes were fixed on Draco’s fangs. His fingers twitched, reaching for the inside of his jacket—”

“My blood can save her.” Draco said.

Lucius stopped. “Why should I believe anything you say? You aren’t my son—you’re a filthy, bloodsucking—”

“I’m still me,” Draco tried to ignore his father’s words, the way they _ripped_ at him. He’d never wanted them to find out. He’d known what would happen.

Draco was not a Malfoy any longer.

He was a monster.

“How many have you fed on? How many have you killed?”

“You don’t understand—I can control it!”

“How many, Draco?” he asked softly.

Draco went silent.

“You couldn’t help yourself.” His father said. “It’s perfectly understandable. It’s in your nature. You are the same as Bellatrix, or Greyback--”

“Father—”

“You are no son of mine. You are a monster with my son’s voice! And I won’t listen to a word you say! Get out of here at once, or I’ll curse you!” Lucius drew his wand and pointed it, shaking.

“Father.” Draco was crying now, tears leaking down his eyes and pouring down his shirt. His fangs retracted, and he fell to his knees. “ _Please_. Let me save her.”

“It won’t help.” said a voice.

“What?” Lucius whirled, for the voice had seemed to be coming from the opposite direction, one of the trees that lined the path toward the manor.

“Vampire blood won’t help her, Draco.” The voice said.

Draco squinted, but he could see nothing. Someone was invisible, lurking in the shadows. Someone who didn’t have a problem moving without being seen.

Someone stupid enough to follow him.

**HARRY**

“Show yourself!” Malfoy climbed to his feet, his fangs descending past his lip. “Show yourself, you bloody _coward_!”

Harry’s heart twisted at the anguish in his voice.

He’d landed his Thestral just next to Malfoy’s. The pair had already huddled together in the trees, happy to be with a member of their herd

He was terrified he hadn’t made it in time; he’d had to double back for his phone, and he lost valuable time calling up the Thestrals, until he remembered that they liked raw meat, and he’d raided Aberforth’s stores.

He spent the whole flight in fear, his mind racing ahead. He was terrified that Malfoy had already tried to cure his mother, possibly infecting everyone around himself in the process. Terrified that his father had attacked and killed him, because the Malfoy family didn’t abide nasty half-breeds.

Terrified that, since he’d stepped outside of quarantine and flown here himself, he was endangering more people than he would save.

And who would he even save?

_“Are you going to stop him, or are you going to help him?”_

Harry had arrived to see Lucius pacing the gate, shouting abuse at Draco. And then Draco had knelt before his father, his shoulders slumped in anguish. Lucius Malfoy’s face was etched in disgust.

And it all seemed so impossible.

_Am I saving anyone?_

Harry emerged from the trees, his phone clutched in his hand.

“Go back to school, Mr. Potter.” Lucius spoke in his eloquent, clipped voice, which belied his disheveled state. “You should be in quarantine. This is a family affair.”

“Your blood won’t save her,” Harry kept his eyes on Draco. “Please. Listen.”

Draco shook his head helplessly. “Why did you follow me here?”

“I had to.”

“What makes you think you had to be a part of _this?”_

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it quickly.

It didn’t matter. Draco saw it in his eyes.

And for a moment, the world dropped out from beneath their feet. They floated, suspended.

Draco was the first to look away.

Harry held up the phone. “Hermione. Tell him.”

Draco turned back to him, curled his lip. And only a hint of what had passed between them colored his voice when he said, “You think _Granger_ —”

“Shut up and listen to me,” the voice that issued through the phone was clear and direct. Of all of the golden trio, it was Hermione that had changed the most since the battle. Where before she’d been intimidating, she was now terrifying. Where before she’d been intense, now she incinerated. Whenever she spoke, the room went completely silent.

And she was always, always right.

“Your mother’s condition results in a genetic disfigurement.” She began. “Vampire blood, while capable of healing great wounds, cannot change a person’s DNA—"

“Unless they are changed into a vampire.” Draco retorted.

“You know your mother wouldn’t want that.” Lucius broke in, his voice twisted in anguish. “To become—”

“A monster.” Draco finished bitterly. “But I’m alive. I’m _alive_ , and she—”

“I’ve spoken to her Healers,” Hermione interrupted. “She has only hours left. Is this how you want to spend that time, Draco? Out here, trying to go against her wishes? Or with her, to say—” 

“Goodbye,” Harry finished. He put his hand on Draco’s shoulder, but the other boy shrugged it off. His eyes were on the ground.

Harry saw a single tear splash onto the pavement.

“If I can’t save her, then why am I even here?” Draco whispered. “How do I live with myself?”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He, too, was trying to reconcile with all the lives he couldn’t save, the lives he _didn’t_ save.

The bodies lying in the Great Hall, their faces still and peaceful.

The people who died for him, even when he didn’t ask it, even when he would have given anything to have taken their place.

_“The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death,”_ Harry murmured.

“What? What did you say?”

“You can’t outrun death, Draco. Sometimes there isn’t a loophole; there isn’t a way back.”

He shook his head. “Don’t lecture me about death, Potter.” He spat. “I know more—I know enough—”

“Mr. Malfoy—” while Draco and Harry had been arguing, a white-robed Healer had appeared at Lucius’ side. Her hand on his shoulder was comforting, but her tone was final. “It’s time.”

Draco’s head snapped up. “I can Turn her, Father! It isn’t too late.”

“It won’t work.” The Healer said, her dark eyes softening. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Lucius stood there silently for a moment. Then, as his face began to crumple inward, he shrugged off the Healer’s touch. “Go! Hurry! Save my—save your mother.”” Lucius’ voice broke.

Draco didn’t need more than that. Harry tried to reach for him, to hold onto him, but he was too fast. “Stop!” Harry shouted helplessly, as Draco raced toward the house.

“Harry?” Hermione broke in, her voice high and thin. “Harry—what happened? Where is he?”

But Harry was already running, the phone tossed onto the grass that lined the pathway. He felt the gates turn to smoke as he passed through them; it was like standing too close to a campfire, a burst of heat, the smoke stinging his eyes, and then he was through, the mansion less than a hundred yards away, tracking Draco’s gleaming had as he disappeared over the threshold. 

Lucius was a heartbeat behind him, both of them too full of adrenaline and hope, tragedy and despair, to think of casting a spell.

Harry leapt up the steps and dashed through the door, his wand raised, looking around desperately for Draco—

The foyer was a wide expanse of pristine, elegant furniture, the floor white marble. Multiple adjoining hallways, as well as a spiral staircase, extended from the room.

“Where—” Harry panted, but Lucius only shoved past him, racing up the spiral staircase.

And Harry was a heartbeat behind him, hot on his heels as their steps clattered upward.

The second floor opened onto a hallway that overlooked the floor below, still festooned with a chandelier remarkably similar to the one that had plummeted on top of Hermione on that terrible night—

The door to the bedroom on the right was wide open, light spilling into the darkened hallway.

Lucius Malfoy dashed through it, then stopped, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

His wand clattered to the floor.

Harry burst through the door, his wand raised, ready to cast a stinging hex, a Repulsion Charm, anything to prevent Draco from making the biggest mistake of his life—

He lowered his wand.

Draco was sitting up on the bed, cradling a skeletal-looking woman in his arms. Her silvery hair was strewn all over his chest, individual strands gleaming on the black silken sheets. Her fingers were long and thin, and Harry could practically see the shape and color of the bones beneath.

The sounds Draco was making were hardly human. He keened like an animal, the grief shuddering through him in waves that never seemed to dissipate.

“Draco—” Lucius whispered, his voice shaking. He sat on the bed on the side opposite Draco and drew his wife’s hand to his face, cradling it, kissing her fingers.

“I was too late,” Draco whispered. “She was already—she’s already gone.”

He looked up for a moment, and his eyes met Harry’s. All the grief in them seemed to vanish, replaced by a simmering rage. His pupils widened, and his eyes turned black. His fangs descended so quickly, they pierced his bottom lip, and it was with a mouthful of blood that he spat at Harry:

“Get the fuck out of here, Potter! I never want to see you again. I’ll kill you. I swear to God, I’ll kill you—”

Harry didn’t move, “Draco—”

“GET OUT.” Draco screamed. “LEAVE US ALONE. YOU DID THIS. YOU—I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU, HARRY POTTER.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said, tears starting in his own eyes as Draco snarled at him. “I won’t leave you.”

Harry stuck his wand in his back pocket. He held up his hands.

Draco tensed, as though he were about to strike. Harry didn’t flinch.

And Harry walked toward Draco slowly, his feet barely making a noise on the expensive, ornate carpet.

Draco kept snarling, his fangs gleaming, blood staining his chin. “Get away from me, Harry,” The closer Harry got, the more Draco shook. The more broken he sounded. “Get awaay. I don’t _want_ you here.”

He was still saying it as Harry came closer, quieter and weaker each time. Harry reached him and wrapped his arms around Draco’s chest, curving his body over Draco’s, who still held his mother in his arms.

“I know,” Harry pressed his face into Draco’s hair, smelling salt and tears and death and blood.

“I hate you,” Draco whispered brokenly.

“I know.” 


	8. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for what's about to happen. I don't even know how to summarize this chapter, except that I was sad writing it, and you're gonna be sad reading it. Enjoy.
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure now that there will be 10 chapters. It's a whole-ass novella. 
> 
> Keep up the Kudos-ing and Commenting, please. It's my only contact to the outside world.

CHAPTER 8: June

**HARRY**

“What color dress robes are you buying?” Ron asked. “Mum says we should stick to Hogwarts colors, but it’s time for something a little less drab, I reckon.”

“I’m surprised we’re graduating at all,” Harry held up a green set, then a white one, wondering which would be most startling. Wondering if Draco would—

“Do you think Malfoy will be there?”

“Don’t see why he would be.” Ron said. “Not like he cares if he finishes anyway. Didn’t he run off home in the middle of quarantine?”

‘His mother was dying,” Madame Malkin clucked sympathetically as she started to measure Ron’s arms and legs. “He wanted to be there for her.”

“And never mind that it compromised anyone else, right?” Ron snorted. ‘Typical Malfoy.”

“I went after him.” Harry reminded him.

“Well, you had to try, didn’t you? I always said we should have left them in the Room of Requirement.”

“You don’t mean that.” Hermione snapped from where the witches’ robes were. “And I hardly think that Hogwarts graduation robes are necessary, Ron. It’s only a party.”

“Yeah, but its the _graduation party._ Which I’m surprised they even let us have.” Ron muttered. “After all this madness.”

A wizard in Surrey had manage to manufacture a vaccine in the first week of May. Within weeks, enough of the population had been inoculated that quarantine had lifted. Even in the mMggle world, people had started to poke their heads out into the world again. Friends embraced on the streets. Lovers reunited. 

i _It really would have been a sight to see,_ Harry thought, _if I weren’t so miserable._

It was easy to hide that you were miserable when you were by yourself.. Misery tended to rub off on people, and no one was interested in being depressed when they were finally getting to go outside, to see the Sun again.

Like everything else, loneliness had fallen out of fashion.

And Harry was lonelier than ever.

In quarantine, it was easier to hide it. He’d just reply to Hermione’s text messages, post an occasional photo of a squirrel outside his window on the SnapChat she’d made him get. Exercise. Keep to a routine.

And one knew that he didn’t really sleep. That he’d stopped caring when McGonagall brought news of the virus. That he didn’t bother to even check his watch for the passage of time. 

After Harry had stayed there like that, holding Draco while his world fell apart, holding him like it might hold them both together, Lucius had left them alone for a while.

Eventually, Draco’s sobs had subsided, and he was leaning into Harry’s touch, staring vacantly into space, when the Healer had walked in. She said someone about making arrangements, decisions to be made, events to plan, and Harry had been ushered out of the room.

He’d gone to Lucius to see if they needed help, but Mr. Malfoy had already contacted McGonagall, who was absolutely livid that Harry had flouted the rules. _Again._

He hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye.

He’d sent owls to Draco, of course he had.

And when the quarantine had ended, he’d managed to wrangle an invitation to Narcissa’s funeral service.

He’d told the press some bullshit story about how he and Draco had ‘mended their fences’ together as quarantine buddies, and then he’d _had_ to go, to keep up appearances.

His owls to Draco still went unanswered.

At the funeral, Draco sat in the front row, his back straight, his blonde hair stark against his dark robes. And whenever Harry tried to talk to him, he turned to talk to someone else.

Finally, Harry had followed Draco into the kitchen to ‘check on the food.’

And in front of a group of very uncomfortable-looking wait staff, Harry had finally grabbed Draco by the shoulder and turned him so that they faced each other.

“Why aren’t you talking to me?”

Draco’s nose crinkled. “What makes you think I care what you have to say, Potter?”

“’Potter’?” Harry echoed, bewildered.

“Father and I have work to do. Don’t you have ‘ _fences to mend_?” Draco tried to push past Harry to the door, but Harry stepped in his path. 

Draco’s eyes flashed, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Get out of my way.”

“Why are you acting like this? We’re—” But Harry stopped, seeing too late the coldness in Draco’s eyes, the lack of feeling that took over his countenance.

That thing that had passed between them the night of Narcissa’s death, that which had kept Draco in Harry’s arms that terrible night, had been extinguished like a candle in the rain. All that was left was hatred. Grief and cold disdain.

“What are we?” Draco lifted his chin. “Tell me what we are.”

Harry couldn’t help himself. He stepped closer to Draco, one of his hands tracing the edge of Draco’s collar. “I don’t know.” Harry whispered.

Draco’s features softened. He reached up and touched Harry’s cheek, running his fingers along his jaw as though remembering its shape. His fingertips caught at Harry’s chin.

“Don’t push me away.” Harry said. “I won’t go anywhere.”

For a moment, Draco seemed about to succumb to the attraction that crackled between them. He tilted his head forward, and Harry felt his breath ghost over his lips. “You’re _always,”_ he breathed, “in my way.”

Harry grasped Draco’s wrist. Draco’s eyes darkened, and Harry saw fangs start to peek out over his lower lip.

“Let me take care of you,” Harry said. “Whatever you need—”

He couldn’t finish his sentence. Draco had already pulled him out of the kitchen, raced with him up the stairs of the house until they reached a bedroom with white sheets and dark, crimson hangings across the windows.

Draco pulled Harry through the door and shut it behind him, then pressed Harry against it. Harry felt him reach behind him and latch the door, and he shivered.

“Do you want to—” Harry asked, not sure what he was asking, but he didn’t have time to figure it out. Draco had already crushed his lips to his.

His arms, impossibly strong, pinned Harry, nipping at his lips until he drew blood.

Draco drew back, gasping, a spot of red dotting his white collared shirt, now with several of the buttons undone.

Harry raised his hand to his lip. Felt the tiny puncture Draco had made through his lower lip. It was already starting to swell.

Draco’s face twisted, but his fangs were lengthening, and his mouth was open, panting. “If you want to leave,” he said. “You should do that now.”

In answer, Harry finished unbuttoning Draco’s shirt, until he slid it off him and onto the floor. Through it all Draco barely moved a muscle, but Harry could feel his muscles trembling in restraint.

Harry leaned down to kiss up Draco’s chest, leaving his own marks on his collarbone, up to his neck which made Draco gasp and moan against him. “Let me take care of you,” Harry said again.

He didn’t say what he wanted to. _I don’t care what this is to you. I am yours. I need you._

_I am falling in love with you._

And he didn’t know if Draco heard it, if that was what he felt as he grabbed Harry’s chin and wrenched his head to the side, sinking his fangs into Harry’s neck. Harry’s bones melted in pleasure, and he sank forward onto Draco.

The next thing Harry knew, he and Draco were on the bed, Draco’s mouth still latched onto his neck. Draco deftly unbuckled Harry’s belt and pulled his pants down, running his fingers over Harry’s shaft in a way that made Harry’s stomach knot and his skin catch fire.

“Draco,” Harry gasped. “Fuck. Don’t stop.”

Draco moved his hand up and down, quicker and quicker, until Harry came with a shout, his cum splashing onto Draco’s chest and stomach in a sticky mess.

He was feeling weak and tired again, but Draco’s hard on was still pressing into his stomach.

Draco had stopped feeding to grind himself against Harry, the friction pulling the most delicious noises from him, making him practically keen.

Harry took advantage of his distraction. His mind hazy, dizzy with blood loss and lust, he rolled them over and fumbled at Draco’s belt to pull his pants down. Harry licked a long stripe from Draco’s collarbone to his navel, then ran his lips down to Draco’s balls, sucking them into his mouth, pinning Draco to the bed with one hand while the other boy writhed above him.

“Harry,” Draco hissed between his teeth, blood still staining his mouth. “Fucking—”

“Shh.” Harry hummed and took Draco’s entire dick in his mouth, feeling it bump against the back of his throat. He gagged, which made Draco moan all the louder. His mouth was wide open, and his fangs were sharp and clear, the venom dripping from them.

Draco bucked his hips up thrusting into Harry’s mouth, bringing tears to his eyes.

Harry’s vision went fuzzy as Draco fucked his mouth, finally coming back into focus as Draco came, spilling down Harry’s throat.

Harry swallowed and swarmed up Draco’s body. He felt feverish, pressing hot kisses to Draco’s lips, licking his fangs to see if he could taste the vampire venom.

He felt as though it would never be enough.

When he came again, it was with Draco on top of him, his fingers sunk into his asshole, probing at his spot until his vision went back.

Harry didn’t know how long they did that. Coaxed each other through orgasm after orgasm like taking drugs, hit after hit.

Kissing and biting and licking until it took all their strength just to lie next to each other on the bed.

He only came back to full awareness when he heard a member of the catering pound on the door. “Mr. Malfoy,” the man had a quaver in his voice, no doubt wondering what sort of fucking could wring out that much noise. “Your guests are asking for you.”

And in a moment, Draco was gone. He dressed and left the room so fast, it was like he’d nearly DisApparated.

All that was left was Harry, blissed out, with a niggling pit of worry in his stomach.

Draco hadn’t fucked him like he loved him. He hadn’t fucked him like someone who wanted a life with him, someone who wanted everything they’d seen in each other’s eyes, everything they’d felt the past few months. He’d fucked him like a dying man on his way to the gallows.

Harry shook himself. Ron had been saying something, and he’d been distracted.

His thoughts had wandered back to that night again, in spite of all his attempts to forget it. 

“Harry? Are you even listening to me?” Ron poked him with his wand.

“Sorry-“ Harry shook his head, banishing thoughts of Draco from his mind. “What?”

“Are you alright? Is it your scar again?”

Harry shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I’m just—tired.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Sure.” He straightened his sleeves. “I was saying,” he went on, “Do you really have to be _friends—”_ his face twisted in disgust—“with Malfoy.”

Harry sighed. “Percy says it’s good for morale.”

“Well, Percy also said that cauldron size is ‘one of the great crises sweeping the nation.’” Ron rolled his eyes.

Harry shrugged. “I just have to keep it up ‘til graduation. We can go back to hating each other after that.”

“How did you _survive_ him? He’s a slimy git.”

Harry half-laughed. “I didn’t really.”

Before Ron could ask anything else, Hermione changed the subject, “Have you talked to Ginny lately?” she asked, a catch in her voice.

“Erm,” Harry began awkwardly. He and Ron didn’t talk about Harry’s relationship with Ginny even under the best of circumstances, and how would he explain that he hadn’t so much as _thought_ about Ginny in months? That all of his dreams were filled with a single person, slender, with blonde hair and icy blue-grey eyes.

Harry’s hand went up to the tiny scars on his neck, the puncture wounds that, luckily had escaped the notice of any of his friends.

“We haven’t really talked since the quarantine.” Harry said. “She seemed like she wanted to keep her distance.”

“Oh.” Ron looked confused. “She was talking through one of those mirrors during quarantine to someone. Wasn’t that you?”

“No.” Harry’s brow furrowed. “It wasn’t.”

He waited for the monster to erupt in his chest. The one that had emerged so viciously when he’d seen Ginny and Dean embracing in that corridor during Sixth Year. The one that assured him that Ginny had been it: is person, his soulmate. The person he was meant to love for the rest of his life.

But it was gone. He felt only a slight twinge at the idea that Ginny might have moved on, and he couldn’t figure out what it was—regret? Remorse?

_“You cast her aside,”_ Draco’s voice came to live in his head. _“Loving you is only destruction.”_

“I’m sorry, Mate,” Ron put his hand on Harry’s shoulder, clearly misinterpreting his distress.

“No, it’s alright. It’s—fine.” Harry said absently. “I’ll need to talk to Madame Malkin about these robes—I think I’d like a longer hem—”

“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione’s voice came sharply over the divide, and she emerged a moment later, causing Ron to whirl in panic. “Hermione,” he said, half-amused, half-exasperated. “This is the _men’s_ dressing room.” 

“Oh, we’ve been down this road before,” Hermione rolled her eyes, then cast them up and down Ron’s form appreciatively. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, anyway.”

“I’d like to be excused from this conversation,” Harry said. “For the rest of my life.”

He rushed forward, trying not to overhear the whispered exchange between Ron and Hermione, which seemed to oscillate frantically between seduction and concern for his well-being.

Perhaps one day, when they finally got married, they’d be so enamored with each other that they wouldn’t stop to wonder about him at all…

He wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up. Alone, the sadness overtook him again, a cold hand wrapped around his stomach, reaching up into his throat.

He slumped against the wall of the changing room, letting himself break down for just this one moment, this one second. Letting the full weight of all that had passed between himself and Draco press into him, drown him. Tears sprang to his eyes, and a single sob choked out. He dug his fingernails into his palms.

_Just a minute,_ Harry thought, his body crumpling with the weight of the grief, the misery, and the loneliness. _Just one minute._

And the pain raged through, replaying every word, every kiss, every look between them that spoke of something terrifying and awe-inspiring, growing even more with every passing second, like the sun breaking through the clouds. 

And Harry wondered if he could die from loving someone so much.

**DRACO**

“There he is! Back from the dead,” Zabini greeted Draco with a sneer as he stumbled into the room, a glass of cognac already in hand, his shirtfront rumpled. “How was the plague?”

“My mum died,” Draco muttered. “Git.” This was exactly why he didn’t want to go to this party. Too many people only grateful for what they had gained. Too many people joyful at reuniting.

Too many who hadn’t lost much of anything.

“Ignore him,” Pansy Parkinson snapped. “Blaise, why don’t you stick that perfect nose in someone else’s business?”

Blaise wrinkled his delicate nose disdainfully. “I’m just making conversation.”

Pansy sighed with exasperation. “You’re off your face. Excuse him,” she said to Draco. “Why don’t you come out on the balcony with me? We can have a drink.” One of her hands slid its way up Draco’s arm, lingering on his muscled bicep. “Or maybe a few drinks.”

Draco shook his head. “I’m getting out of here. This party’s ridiculous.”

“We’ll come with you.” Blaise stretched languidly. “I’ve never been one for school-sanctioned events anyway.”

“ _You’re_ not invited.”

“Since when?”

“Since you made a joke about my mother.”

“I didn’t—”

But with a flick of his wand, Draco slashed a rent up Blaise’s leg, causing blood to spurt from a wound in his knees.

“Fuck!” Pansy rushed to stop the bleeding. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

But Draco had already disappeared through the door, back down the velvet-lined staircase to the foyer below. He should have known that this party was a mistake, shouldn’t have allowed his father to talk him into it.

“Get on your dress robes,” Lucius had appeared at his bedroom door in a shimmer of silk and velvet, his sleek hair brushed and bound back in a ribbon, his silver-topped cane setting off his aura of elegance. “We’re going to your graduation party.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You will go.”

“I won’t.”

Lucius had chosen to walk away when Draco got like this over the past month or so. Even during the end of the quarantine, when Draco refused to take a walk outside, to visit his mother’s grave, just below the peonies that she’d insisted Lucius plant just in front of the living room window when they had gotten married, no matter that they “ruined the whole aesthetic.”

After the funeral, anyone could tell that something had broken within Draco. Something that it seemed could never be repaired.

But this time, Lucius didn’t take no for an answer. A rustle of velvet and silk hit Draco full in the face, casting a shroud of black over his vision. “It’s not a request.”

“I don’t want to go a stupid party.”

“If you want to be the next Minister, you will go. You will shake hands, mention how you and Potter—”

“ _Don’t—”_ Draco was suddenly standing before his father, his face feral, his lips pulled back to reveal his fangs—“say his name.”

“—' _Mended your fences;_ whilst you were quarantined. You will cut a respectable figure for yourself and for our family. You will accept the condolences that no doubt the entirety of the gathering will offer you. And you will help me dedicate the class gift to medical research.”

“I won’t go.”

Lucius Malfoy didn’t even blink as Draco stepped closer, his teeth ready to slash. “You are not the type of monster that scares me anymore, Draco.” He said. “I have faced far worse than you. Now, drop this act and get dressed.”

He slammed the door in Draco’s face.

After a moment, Draco began dressing. His father was right: he _did_ want to become Minister someday.

It was what his mother would have wanted.

But—he stopped for a moment as he clasped the silver and emerald brooch, fashioned in the shape of a serpent, that was supposed to fasten the clasp of his traveling cloak.

The emeralds that were the exact color of Harry’s eyes.

Draco shook his head. He’d been hoping these sort of thoughts would go away with time, after what he’d done, but they’d only intensified.

And knowing that he was probably about to see Harry, they were even worse.

Draco downed his cognac in a few quick swallows, relishing the burn it brought to his eyes and throat. He hadn’t seen Potter yet this evening; he’d heard the clamor, of course, when he had entered, but he’d snuck up a side corridor into the upstairs wing of the grand country house, towards the sound of Parkinson’s mocking laughter and Zabini’s smooth drawl.

They always used to spend parties like this: ensconced in a single room, sprawled around each other on the floor, dizzy with smoke and drunk on Firewhiskey. All of the Slytherin parties, the Yule Ball, any of the Hogwarts celebrations, had ended that way, with Draco and his mates in some room, laughing themselves hoarse, forgetting everything but the night.

But now, all Draco was aware of was Zabini’s ignorance of his mother’s passing. How could someone be insensitive to an event that shook the entire Earth, that rearranged the atoms of Draco’s body? How could he be so cavalier about such a catastrophe?

He needed to control himself. Part of him wanted to go back in there and drink Zabini’s blood until he was a mess on the floor. Part of him wanted to drain him, kill him and let his father deal with how to cover up his monstrous deeds.

Part of him wanted to burn this whole building down.

“Draco—there you are—” Slughorn chortled happily as he grabbed him, hauling him towards the stairs. “They’re ready for you and Potter next!”

“Professor, I don’t—”

“Oh, nonsense.” Slughorn fussed at Draco’s collar, buttoning him back into respectability. “Never a night of my youth when I didn’t engage in a little debauchery, m’boy! But you come from good stock, you’ll do excellently under a little pressure.” He was steering Draco toward a set of stairs, which Draco knew opened up onto the stage that hung over the dance floor. “Potter is up there already—do us proud!”

Draco stepped into the blinding glare of the spotlight, raising his hand up instinctively to cover his eyes. Percy Weasley was speaking, his voice magically magnified. “And it is my great honor to introduce these next two young wizards, who went from enemies to friends as a result of their quarantine.” He paused, his chest seeming to swell with self-importance. “Above all, this pandemic showed us one thing: we are better—together.”

He turned to wave at the dark-haired figure to his left, and Slughorn shoved Draco forward.

And Draco looked upon the face of Harry Potter for the first time since that wonderful, terrible night.

The rest of the funeralgoers were taking a stroll through the Malfoy’s garden, admiring the albino peacocks and the general greenery, breathing in the sweet summer air.

Draco had gone to the fountain at the back of the property, overgrown and ill-kept since his mother’s death. Lucius had only bothered to maintain the greenery around the walking trails, and all manner of birds and other creatures flitted in and out of the fountain. Beetles crawled on the ground; it looked like the fish within had begun to reproduce, and there was moss staining the edges of the white marble.

Draco stared at the water, his hands clasped behind his back, letting the dull trickle of the fountain soothe him. He couldn’t hear anything but the fountain. Not the clamors of his relatives. Not the eager references to his mother’s fortune, the snide whispers about the suspicious nature of her death ( _“we didn’t even know she was ill…are you certain it was such an affliction…congratulations on your inheritance…)_

There was no way anyone would think to look for him here.

Except—

“I figured you’d want to get away from the crowd.” Harry emerged from behind the trees, his feet scuffing the ground. “You’re easy to follow for a vampire.”

Draco didn’t turn around. “Go away.”

“We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. Go away.”

“Fine.“ Harry sighed. “ _I_ need to talk—about what just happened.”

Draco closed his eyes, remembering. Potter’s eyes burned even brighter when he climaxed, like they were glowing.

It was a sight to see, something he’d treasure forever.

It could never happen again.

“What’s there to say? Do you want a few Galleons?”

“Excuse me?”

Draco whirled, letting his vampire attributes sharpen his features, turn his smirk into a snarl. Letting himself look as cold and threatening as possible.

“I was hungry—and you helped me out.” He said. “We fucked, Potter. Do you want a fucking greeting card?”

Harry got that stubborn look again. “You’re trying to push me away. It won’t work.”

“I’m not _trying_ to do anything. You were the only thing with a _pulse_ in quarantine. And you’re fit as hell.”

“And that’s all I am to you? A blood bag? A good fuck? Was I your fucking— _grief_ _counseling_?” Harry sounded genuinely hurt now, but Draco knew he would have to do more to drive the knife in deeper.

Harry Potter would need a lot more before he walked away.

“You were a _convenience_.” Draco said. “In the right place at the right time.”

“I was a _convenience?”_ Harry bit off the end of the word, blood rushing to his cheeks. His hands went into fists at his side. “All you do is destroy.” He whispered.

“ _We_ destroy.” Draco said. “You know that.”

“So you’re pushing me away because you’re afraid.”

“I’m pushing you away because I don’t fucking need you anymore!” Draco shouted. “Quarantine’s over! We can go back to the way things were!”

“We can?” Harry was shouting too, striding up right into Draco’s face. “How about this: I love you. I love you, Draco Malfoy. And I know that you’re hurting right now, and your whole world is upside down, but you love me, too.”

And Draco moved, so quickly that even Harry Potter, one of the greatest wizards that had ever lived, didn’t have time to react.

He grabbed Harry’s wrist and _twisted,_ so that it broke with a crack. The pain forced Harry to his knees.

Draco could feel him trembling. But Potter wouldn’t let out a whimper of pain. He wouldn’t even ask for mercy. _Too bloody noble._

“If you don’t leave right now,” Draco hissed, twisting Potter’s wrist a little further, so that he let out a bark of pain. “I will kill you.”

“You won’t.” Said Harry through gritted teeth. “You can’t.” He reached with his left hand and grabbed his wand. “ _Episkey.”_ There was a crack, and Harry’s wrist sprang out of Draco’s grip, healing instantly.

“ _Avada Kedavra.”_ Draco said softly.

A jet of green light flew out of his wand, blasting a hole in the Earth just beyond where Harry knelt.

Harry jumped to his feet, shocked, “You tried to—”

“You have to mean it, Potter!” Draco hissed. “And I _meant_ it. Get the fuck out of my life.”

For the first time, a look of pure anguish crossed Harry’s face. The sight almost made Draco drop his wand, almost made him rush in and take Harry in his arms, smash his lips to his again, because it was the only thing that ever felt right.

But instead, he just watched as Potter set his jaw and disappeared. He heard Potter’s footsteps as he tramped through the property, then a _crack._

When Draco was sure he was gone, he sank to his knees and sobbed, harder than he had the night of his mother’s death, when Harry had held him, murmuring into his hair, holding him together while his world broke apart around him.

He cried harder than he’d ever cried in his life.

And when he finally got to his feet, he swore that he would never cry again.

The dark-haired figure to the left of Percy Weasley was barely recognizable. A shade of stubble shadowed his jaw, and he seemed to have spent a lot of time exercising outdoors, if the thick muscles that slid beneath his white robes and his tan were of any indication.

Typical of Potter to wear _white._ As if being called ‘The Chosen One’ wasn’t enough.

Draco pasted a smile onto his face (he’d been practicing for months; you’d have to really know him to know that he didn’t mean it). He and Harry shook hands, both of them positively beaming. “Draco.” Potter said coolly, his deep green eyes expressionless, and bottomless.

“Nice to see you again,” Draco said, his every word oozing disdain.

The photos were taken, and Draco retreated back down the steps. Now that the main portion of the evening was done, he could politely retire for the evening.

But perhaps it would be prudent to find another drink first. Draco went back into the foyer, preparing to re-enter the ballroom and make a beeline for the bar. His vampire liver seemed to have an abominable alcohol tolerance—three cognacs in, and he was barely buzzed.

And that encounter certainly warranted some inebriation.

“You could have made that more believable.” Potter was walking toward him, 2 glasses of Firewhiskey in his hand.

Draco took the offered one with a grunt. “Didn’t know you to be much of a drinker.”

“Times change.”

They slipped in silence. “So—who’s taking the photo?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m assuming that’s why you’re doing this.” Draco looked around. “Do you want me to kiss you? It would make that Weasley girl _awfully_ jealous. Isn’t she with Thomas again?”

“Don’t be crude.”

Draco sighed. He wandered over to a silver-gilded, black satin bench and sat down. “So, why are you out here?”

Harry wandered over to one of the grand columns next to the bench. He leaned against it, taking his time to mull over his answer. Finally, he said, “I wanted to see how you were doing.” 

“Well, as you can see,” Draco gulped down the rest of his Firewhiskey, relishing the tingling sensation that spread to his limbs. He spread his arms, sending the glass to the floor, where it shattered. “I’m grand.”

Potter flinched. “Don’t be like this.” He placed his drink on the ground and crossed his arms.

“Like what? We hate each other, Potter. We’re mortal fucking enemies. One fuck isn’t going to change that.”

“Stop.” Potter hissed. “I know you still care.”

Draco laughed drunkenly. “I tried to kill you. What part of that screams of my affection? I mean, the Dark Lord was quite _obsessed_ with you for all those years, so I suppose—”

“And I sliced you open in the bathroom during Sixth Year.”

“Yeah, well—” Draco burped. “That was different.”

“We’re always trying to hurt each other,” Harry said. “Until we aren’t. Why won’t you admit it?”

“There’s nothing to admit!” Draco shouted, his fangs lengthening. “Nothing’s changed! I _hate you._ Can’t you see that?”

“I remember everything that happened between us, Malfoy.” Harry’s eyes were suddenly that near-glowing green again, and Draco felt curiously vulnerable as he walked over to the bench, towering over him. “I remember every second.”

The fFrewhiskey must have been going to Draco’s head. Potter’s face was swimming in front of him, and he was beginning to notice things that he thought he’d forgotten, like that Potter always smelled like grass and cinnamon, that he always walked with the readiness of a born athlete, that he was so _tall_. “I did mean it.” Draco said, trying desperately to maintain his icy disdain, even though he wanted nothing more than to sink his fangs into Harry’s throat, to wrap his limbs around him until there was no separating them. “I tried to kill you.” He whispered. “I _meant_ it.”

Harry leaned in close, and Draco brought his lips up to Harry’s within a heartbeat, his fangs already lengthening, lust and hunger thrumming through his veins. Their lips were a hairsbreadth from meeting—

“Not like this,” Harry whispered softly, pushing Draco back with a tap of his fingers.

“ _Harry_ —”

But Harry was already backing away, shaking his head. His luminous eyes filled with tears. “I won’t let you put me through this again, Draco. I— _can’t.”_ His voice broke.

Draco lurched to his feet, stumbling toward Harry, reaching out to touch him, to hold him, to tell him anything he wanted, everything, just to get Harry in his arms again, just to stop this _ache._

But his hands caught only air

Harry was gone.


	9. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been months since the last time Draco and Harry saw each other at the party. Draco's an intern for Minister Shacklebolt, and Harry is an Auror with Ron and Hermione. Feat. way too many Twilight references, because it's just too funny. Hermione being the only useful member of the golden trio. 
> 
> Have fun y'all. We got another chapter after this one.

CHAPTER 9: SEPTEMBER

**DRACO**

“The Minister wants those reports on his desk no later than Friday.” Percy looked at Draco through his horn-rimmed glasses. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Draco could tell by his tone that it had better _not_ be a problem, not if he wanted to keep his job. Who knew that politics could be so boring? All the intrigue, the back-door meetings and hidden corridors, had been replaced by tea runs and statistics. It was downright depressing.

Draco sighed. “No, Mr. Weasley. It won’t be a problem. I’ll just pop on over to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

He left the office before Percy could utter another word. He’d probably suggest that Draco send one of those infernal memos, but Draco preferred to be out of the office, away from Weasley’s accusing gaze.

No one in the Order would ever trust a Malfoy, Draco’s brief friendship with Potter notwithstanding. The act had been dropped as soon as the Ministry had resumed normal duties; Shacklebolt detested propaganda, and he didn’t want a Malfoy within spitting distance of his system of government.

His advisors had managed to keep Draco as an intern, to take photos of him hurrying after the Minister on one of his errands, to get some of the establishment on Shacklebolt’s side as he introduced his sweeping changes, but it was all an act. Draco wasn’t part of Shacklebolt’s administration. He didn’t even have a key to his office. 

Once upon a time, Draco would have done everything he could to prove he was worthy of Shacklebolt’s trust. He’d be driven by his desire to succeed, to rise to Minster, to make his father and his family proud. Draco would have fought to be included in those meetings, the ones that everyone pretended didn’t exist, where power changed hands like a daring, intricate chess game. Draco knew those meetings took place, knew by the smug looks Percy shot him whenever he was invited to one, while Draco had to wait in the hall.

As intern to the Minister’s Junior Undersecretary, Draco wasn’t allowed in such meetings. Whenever the Minister spoke to him, it was usually an awkward pat on the shoulder, a brief exchange of pleasantries in a lift.

Or an admonishment that he expected his tea to be served hot, whether Draco had to go across London to procure it or not.

Draco wondered what his father would think if he saw him now. Lucius Malfoy didn’t come to the Ministry very often these days—everyone who had sucked up to him had been thoroughly relieved of their position under Shacklebolt’s regime.

Shacklebolt, Weasley, even the wizard who came to check the plumbing, all shared a similar distrust for anyone who was under Voldemort’s influence, even if they had all pleaded to be under duress, even if his father’s money had kept them out of prison.

Draco could hardly blame him. He was still a monster, after all.

At least his father hadn’t told anyone about his condition. The scandal would be far too disastrous.

Draco sighed as he stepped into the lift.

Sometimes, he even liked working at the Ministry. It kept him underground, out of the sunlight. And sometimes, his enhanced hearing could catch the whispered conversations he wasn’t allowed into, so long as someone forgot to cast _Muffilato._ He’d gathered that the Ministry was still working on hunting down some of Voldemort’s more avid followers, that there was another sect threatening Muggle rights in America, that Potter had been designated to head this task force…

Malfoy took that news with a surge of relief. With Potter all the way across the world, there was no chance they’d run into each other.

He’d gotten a little flat just a few blocks from the Ministry, and Blaise and Parkinson had both stopped sending him Owls since the party.

It was almost like being in quarantine again, except now he didn’t have to sneak out to clubs, and he could take whatever unsuspecting victim he wanted home. He could try to use them to fill the void Potter had left, and if they had to take a Blood Replenishing Potion after, so be it.

He hadn’t killed anyone. He’d managed that much. But he knew he was walking a thin line. He’d already been followed by a few vampires once or twice.: dark, shadowy figures who dogged his steps when he took another lover home for the evening. He knew they were watching him, waiting for him to slip up. He knew he wouldn’t be able to survive outside a coven if they decided he was too conspicuous and inconvenient, that he might bring down the entire Department of Magical Creatures on himself.

He just wish he _cared._

It wasn’t that it was difficult for him to stop. It was just that every time he drank someone else’s blood, he grew frustrated and angry. And he drank deeper and deeper, trying to convince himself that it was all he needed. That he wasn’t missing anything.

It never tasted the way Harry had tasted.

_“You have to earn me.”_

Draco knew what he’d been asking. Harry had wanted him to go all in. He’d wanted more than back-corridor hookups and late nights.

He wanted everything.

But had he forgotten? He couldn’t get close to anyone; neither of them could. Anyone who came close to them burned up. Anyone who they loved was destroyed by it.

It was better that Draco had never sent an owl after that party. Better that Potter had volunteered for a mission across the world.

Better that they were enemies again, and always would be.

Draco stepped out of the lift and wandered down the hallway, barely paying attention to the few wizards who greeted him as he passed.

He was stopped by a hand blocking his path through the hallway. He ran into it, grunted.

“Draco.” A demanding, arrogant female voice said.

Draco delicately tried to remove the arm. It didn’t budge.

Finally, he looked down. “Granger. You’re in my way.”

“I need to speak with you.”

“Shouldn’t you be halfway across the world right now?”

“You’re not supposed to know about that.” Hermione looked from side to side, as though she were worried about them being seen. “Can we go somewhere?”

“Sure. Let me just step into my office. Oh wait—”

Hermione rolled her eyes and grabbed him by the sleeve. “Come on.”

She towed him down the hallway and toward a flight of stairs. He clattered after her, neither of them speaking. Draco was getting a little winded. For someone so small, Granger was _fast._

Finally, she stepped off onto a floor that smelled abandoned. The air was musty, and the lights were off in the hallway. She grabbed his arm and shoved him into a room, where one of his knees collided painfully with a chair before there was a _click_ and the lights turned on.

“Are you finally going to kill me?” Draco said, leaning against the back of the chair. “It’s about time.”

“Do you want me to punch you again?”

“Maybe.”

Hermione raised her wand. “Maybe I’ll just turn you into a ferret. I’ve always wanted to relive that experience.”

Draco sighed. “Look, if you came here just to curse me—”

“Shut up and listen. I need you to go to America.” 

“Damn, Granger, if you don’t want me to work here—”

Hermione continued as though he had not spoken. “Las Vegas, specifically.”

Draco frowned. “I mean, I love strippers and cocaine as much as the next guy, but—”

“I need you to find Harry and bring him back.”

“What?” Draco was so surprised, he forgot to act blasé and unbothered. “Why can’t you?”

“Because I don’t know where he is.” Hermione put a hand in her hair, which was frizzing like it always did when she got too excited. “He and Ron went into the desert three days ago, and I can’t find them. I’ve tried all the usual spells, but there’s nothing to show where they went! They’ve vanished!”

“Well.” Draco straightened, smoothing a piece of hair back from his forehead idly. “ _Good_.”

“Stop. I know that something—happened between you and Harry.”

“That was a PR stunt. Which is now over. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get to work—”

“You’re an intern. They barely notice if you’re breathing.” Hermione raised her wand. “At least hear me out. _Please_.”

The ‘please’ was what caught his attention. Granger never asked anyone for anything. He sank into the desk chair, resting his feet on the table. “You’re the ‘brightest witch of your age,’” he said, making air quotes around the phrase. “What can I possibly do that you haven’t done already?”

“I know what you are.” She said.

“If you’re talking about me being bi, that coming out party happened about five years ago—”

“A vampire.”

Draco casually withdrew his wand from his pocket, keeping his same nonchalant expression. “And how do you know that?” 

“Harry told me.”

Draco hadn’t expected Potter’s name to have such an effect on him. But the way she’d said his name, like she’d just spoken to him yesterday, like she would a brother, made him flinch. “Let me guess,” he began, his eyes roving up and down Hermione’s body, “You’re drawn in by my velvety darkness. And you’ve caught me, Granger—' _you are my personal brand of heroin.’_. Do you want to make out? Chastely of course—I wouldn’t want to compromise your virtue, even thought that ship has undoubtedly sailed--” 

“Stop with the _Twilight_ references!” Hermione had turned bright red, and Draco grinned in triumph. “Stop trying to flirt with me! _I know_ something happened between you two.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What happens in quarantine, stays in quarantine. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“He loves you.”

Draco shook his head, but his right hand, which didn’t hold his wand, closed in a fist. “He doesn’t love me. I don’t love him. It was a _game,_ Granger. One that I actually won, for once. If this isn’t your invitation to a tryst, well—”

Hermione shoved his legs off the table. “You have to help me.”

Draco yawned. “I don’t see why.”

“Because Ron and Harry haven’t contacted me in _days.”_ Hermione ran a hand through her hair. “And I don’t want to call on the other Aurors for backup, since—”

“You aren’t _technically_ in America.’” Draco finished. “It’s ‘classified.’ I thought Kingsley weeded out all the traitors. How _disconcerting._ ”

Hermione ignored this. “I need your help. You can track people, right?”

Draco closed his eyes. “I’m not a bloodhound, Granger.”

“Vampires are attuned to people they’ve bonded with.” Hermione was speaking rapidly, like she was reciting a phrase from a textbook. “They can find their target even over great distances, often through barriers that would otherwise baffle wizards and Muggles alike. The bond created when a vampire drinks repeatedly from the same individual, particularly when that bond is accompanied by orgasm, is thought to be—”

Draco’s eyes flew open. “Okay, Granger. I get it. You know how to read.”

“—stronger whenever you fall in love.” Hermione finished. She sat across from him and put her elbows on the table. Up close, Draco could see that she was in pretty rough shape. There was a cut across her forearm, and the ‘Mudblood’ scar stood out sharply on her skin. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them, and he was pretty sure there was dirt and leaves matted in her hair.

“Merlin, Granger? You were too worried to shower?”

Hermione ignored him. “So I guess the only question is—did you fall in love with him, too? Do you love him still? Because it might be the only way we can save them. _Please,_ Draco. You know I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. “ 

Draco looked into her brown eyes, remembering all the times he’d spat at her. Called her ‘Mudblood’ and worse. Laughed while Snape mocked her, done his best to make her feel small.

Granger was one of Potter’s best friends. And it was her they’d tortured that night, her that Bellatrix had sliced open, all because she was a Mudblood. Worthless. Expendable.

But Draco had always known that Hermione Granger was far from worthless.

And she was still always right.

He loved Harry. Even if he’d never say it, even if it meant nothing because he was too shredded and useless, too broken a soul to ever be with one as golden as Harry’s, it didn’t matter.

If it was the only good thing that Draco could do in his worthless, meandering existence, it was enough.

He took Granger’s hand in his own and looked into her eyes. “When do we leave?”

Hermione grinned. “I knew it.”

“You don’t know _everything.”_

“I know more than you.”

“Merlin’s beard, I’m going to regret this.”

**HARRY**

“Remember how I said we wouldn’t last two days without Hermione?” Ron called from his cell. “It’s been three days.”

“Yeah, and we got imprisoned forty-five minutes into day one,” Harry said. He still hadn’t figured out exactly where they were. Somewhere in the Nevada desert, he guessed. It was where he and Ron had rushed off to that night. They’d been camping outdoors, tracking a mysterious witch who was rumored to be conducing experiments on Muggles.

He and Ron had awoken to a scream. Somehow, Hermione had stayed fast asleep.

“Let’s not wake her,” Ron had said. “We’ll get her if it’s serious.”

But not long after they’d stepped outside their usual enchantments, something had struck Harry viciously on the back of the head.

And here they were. He could see some red dirt through the narrow windows above their cells. They were underground, their cells seemingly carved into the rock itself and festooned with narrow iron bars across from them. Their wands, Ron’s Deluminator, and all of their other magical items were gone.

They were trapped.

“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Ron muttered. “What did they tell you?”

“Nothing important.” Harry looked up at the ceiling, where the camera rested. He was pretty sure that they could hear what he was saying.

Besides, they _hadn’t_ given him any clarifying information.

“What does the famous Harry Potter want with us?” the witch who interrogated him had long black hair and a sardonic expression. She put her booted feet on the table and waved her wand as she talked, which emanated bright green sparks .

“You’re experimenting on Muggles. Why?”

“You’re a little outside your jurisdiction.” That came from the man dressed as a real-life cowboy next to her. He even had a piece of grass between his teeth. “What Americans do is none of your business.” 

“It has been since the Second War ended.” Harry said. “And when I get out of here—”

“Aw, that’s cute.” The woman tipped her head to the side. “He thinks we’re going to let him go.”

“You aren’t starving us.” Harry said. “You obviously need us for something.”

“Oh, you’re expendable.” The cowboy tipped his hat. “Depend on it.”

“People will be looking for us.”

“You mean your bushy haired partner? We took care of that.’ The woman’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“What the Hell does that mean?” Harry got to his feet, but the witch raised her wand threateningly, and he sank down to his chair again. “What are you doing with the Muggles? What are you going to do with us?”

“The pioneers of society were always the bravest, the reckless and unencumbered. Some said they were crazy. But sanity is the price of progress.” The cowboy said.

“What. Do. You. Want?” 

The woman spoke, and there was a flash of light.

Harry awoke back in his cell, with Ron’s freckled face peering at him from the other one.

Perhaps they were leaving them to rot. He hadn’t been able to bear telling Ron that they’d ‘taken care of’ Hermione, whatever that meant.

If Hermione was dead, if he’d led his best friends into battle once again, only to have them killed? If another person had died for him…

He’d never be able to forgive himself.

But if he didn’t tell Ron soon, Ron would never forgive him, either.

Harry opened his mouth to tell Ron more, but before he could, the door burst open. Before either of them could react, Harry felt the Freezing Charm take hold of him.

He could only watch, horror growing in his stomach, as the cowboy entered his cell, now clad incongruously in scrubs and cowboy boots, holding a long, metal rod with a pulsating crimson gem at the top of it. “What is that?” Harry tried to say, but nothing came out.

The cowboy looked at him, his brow furrowed. “You’re supposed to be one of the greatest wizards who ever lived. What will happen, I wonder, when that’s all gone?”

And then the gem touched Harry’s forehead.

Pain split his skull open. Pain greater than any he’d experienced, like his very soul was being removed, like his skin was being torn off. This was agony, worse than his scar, worse than the Cruciatus Curse.

He tried to scream, but the charm held him fast. Tried to warn Ron, to cry, to beg, but he couldn’t move.

He stayed like that, pinned in agony, until the merciful blankness of unconsciousness took over.

Harry awoke hours later. The sun, which had been filtering weakly through the narrow windows above their prison had turned to night. Bright fluorescent lights were in every corner.

He felt all over his body, looking for obvious wounds. Nothing. His skin remained unmarred. Even his head, which had felt the worst of the pain, bore no mark of the agony.

But he still felt—weak. Exhausted. It was an enormous effort to sit up, to squint across the cell in the dimming light.

“Ron.” He choked out.

“Harry.” Ron whispered weakly. “I don’t feel so good.”

“What did they— _do_ to us?” Harry’s ribs ached; it hurt to breathe.

“Where’s your wand?”

“What d’you mean?” Harry took a breath. Even speaking took a monumental effort. “They took—wait!”

Could it be? His wand was laying on the floor, within easy reach. Someone must have dropped it! Steeling himself, Harry reached through the bars, groping desperately. _“_ C’mon— _Accio.”_ He had it!

Harry felt a trickle of hope surge into his limbs. How could they have made such a foolish mistake? They could escape easily now, bring the whole Ministry back to dismantle whatever horrendous operation these American wizards had going.

“They left mine, too.” Ron said, still lying on the floor. He turned his wand over in his fingers, and Harry could have sworn his eyes brimmed with tears. 

“But then—why didn’t you break us out? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Just—get us out of here.” Ron started to chuckle, but it became a sob. “You’re the Chosen One.”

_“Alohomora!”_ Harry pointed his wand at the lock.

Nothing happened.

“Must have them spelled against it. _Bombarda! Impedimenta! Confringo!”_ He looked at the wall above him, tried spells to carve it out, to open it from that end. Perhaps he was just exhausted. He pointed his wand at a piece of rock that had broken apart from the wall. “ _Wingardium Leviosa!”_

Nothing.

“Something’s blocking my spells!” Harry said. “Do you know how to undo that sort of thing?”

Ron had sat up to watch Harry’s attempts. At his question, he shook his head. “I tried everything Hermione taught me about undoing enchantments. Everything--the cowboy and the woman came in here to watch me do it. And _all_ of their spells worked. They even let me take one of their wands and try, but—”

“What are you saying?”

“They took it, Harry. They sucked it out of us.” 

“What?” Harry’s hand went to his neck, impulsively. “Our blood? Our souls?”

“No.” And Ron was crying now, crying harder than Harry had ever seen him. _“_ They took our _magic.”_


	10. What Happens in Vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I THOUGHT that I would only be writing one more chapter, but then I was like, 'I gotta talk about Draco on a plane, and 'I gotta make fun of Las Vegas,' so here we are! Featuring a few original characters, Draco and Hermione hate-bonding (the best kind of friendship), and a magical necklace that links Hermione and Ron through the power of love, because they're the only straights that matter. 
> 
> And of course, Draco and Harry are pulled, in every possible way, toward each other.
> 
> I hope you're having as much fun as I am! I'm working on the last chapter now (hopefully it will actually be the last one. lol). It's gonna be a great time. 
> 
> Conan Gray's 'Online Love' hits different in quarantine. *Sigh*.

**CHAPTER 10: WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS**

**DRACO**

“Tell me again why we’re taking a _plane._ To _America.”_

“It’s the safest way to travel long distance,” Hermione said patiently. “No wizard would expect us to use Muggle transportation.”

“Maybe because being in a tin can thousands of meters in the air is a stupid way to die?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Plane crash deaths are less likely than car crash deaths.”

“I’ve never been in a car.” Draco shook his head. “Honestly, Granger.” He tried to lean his head against the window, but the plasticky material was too uncomfortable. “You could have at least gotten us first class.”

“Too noticeable.” Hermione bent her head over her book, effectively ending the conversation.

Draco squirmed in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He couldn’t understand why Muggles paid so much money for these things. If this was the standard mode of travel, he’d simply never go anywhere.

They were over the Atlantic Ocean, headed to New York, where they’d get on _another_ flight to Las Vegas. Not only was Potter in America, he was nearly as far away from London as you could be without falling into the _Pacific_ Ocean.

Take-off had been a nightmare. When the plane had started to race down the runway, Draco had been horrified to see the nonchalant, even bored expressions of the Muggles around him. Only the children seemed to be paying attention; several of them gave ‘whoops’ of excitement and gasps of delight as the plane finally took to the air.

Hermione had told Draco that flying in a plane wasn’t much different than flying on a broomstick.

Draco had forgotten that Hermione hated flying on broomsticks.

He’d gripped the seat and closed his eyes, feeling the ground drop out from beneath him. The ground grew smaller and smaller below, until the plane reached ‘cruising altitude’ above the clouds.

This was _nothing_ like flying on a broomstick.

Several times, especially when the plane shook from turbulence, Draco had considered jumping out a window, trusting his vampire strength to protect him, and casting a Cushioning Charm to slow his landing.

But Hermione hadn’t let him. She’d just gripped his wrist whenever he made to get out of his seat, shooting him furious glares out of the corner of her eye.

Then, she’d ordered him a ginger ale.

Honestly. Like he was a _child_.

They’d been flying for five hours, and Draco was starting to get used to the occasional stretches of turbulence, the uncomfortable seating. And his stomach _did_ feel better.

But he was getting hungry. They still had nearly ten hours to go. What was he supposed to do—take out a flight attendant as he walked back from the bathroom? It wasn’t like there was any privacy on these things.

“Can’t we just Apparate the rest of the way?”

Hermione sighed, still not looking up from her book. “At this speed, we’re risking Splinching. Besides, we’d alert the American authorities.” 

“Aren’t they on our side?”

At that, Hermione looked up from her book, wincing. “Harry _may_ have upset them.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Typical.”

“They won’t be pleased if we show up uninvited. There were some er—jurisdictional lines that we _may_ have crossed. Unintentionally.”

“Aren’t they a bit concerned that there’s someone experimenting on Muggles in the Nevada desert?”

“They seemed to think Harry was acting—erratically. That he was seeing enemies everywhere.”

“Was he?”

Hermione sighed. “He hasn’t been—right –since the war. None of us have, but for Harry, it got worse after graduation.” She eyed Draco speculatively. “He’s really lonely, and he won’t _talk_ to anyone.”

“He told you about me.”

“Well. I mostly guessed. He’s horrible at hiding how he feels about you. Always has been.”

“What are you talking about?”

“ _Malfoy.”_ Hermione looked exasperated. “Let’s drop this façade once and for all. You and Harry have been obsessed with each other since you were eleven. Surely you have to realize what that is?”

Draco looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve always been enemies. Until—”

“You were in quarantine, and no one was watching you together, trying to figure out what you were to each other. Isn’t it interesting that you became something else whenever the outside world didn’t matter?”

Draco was silent for a moment, his head whirling. Was that what had been going on this entire time? Had he loved Harry Potter from the beginning, from that first day on the Hogwarts Express?

Had he loved Harry for his entire life?

“Let’s talk about what we’re gonna do when we get there.” He said, trying to distract himself from his thoughts, which kept turning with unerring tendency toward that night, when Potter had faced him across a marble floor, his voice thick with pain. _“You have to earn me.”_

He pulled out the map of Vegas that Hermione had foisted upon him as soon as he agreed to the endeavor. “Do you have _any_ idea where Potter is, or am I just going to search every casino in Vegas?”

“We were camping out in the desert, tracking a couple of kidnapped Muggles,” Hermione began. “I woke up, and Ron and Harry were gone. I didn’t know where they went.” I tried to track them as best as I could, but—there’s no trail. Car tracks, footprints, all magical traces, everything—gone.”

“And no one came for you? They just let you leave and bring backup? Tell the world of their evil plan?”

“Well,” Hermione gave a sly smile. “They didn’t ‘let’ me leave. They surrounded me as soon as I stepped outside our enchantments.”

“You fought your way free?” Draco said, shocked. “How many of them were there?”

“A fair few.”

“Come on, Granger. This is me. You’ve never hesitated to show me how much of a better witch you are.”

“There were fifteen of them.”

“You fought off _fifteen_ wizards.”

“And I cast a few Confusion spells to make sure they thought I wandered into the desert and died.” Hermione shrugged. “It’s simple really, just a matter of concentration.”

“Well, I suppose you _do_ deserve first in our year.” Draco said grudgingly.

Hermione smiled beatifically. “When I’m Minister, I’ll install you as my Deputy.”

“Over my dead body will you get Minister over me, Granger.”

“Technically, you’re already dead.”

Draco laughed. It was nice to talk to someone again. Someone who could meet him blow for blow, who wasn’t afraid of offending him or ordering him around.

It almost felt like they were becoming friends.

“So what’s the plan when we get there?”

“We hope your vampire tracking is something they haven’t thought of. If they’re anything like the Death Eaters here, they won’t have taken precautions from people who aren’t—"

“Human.” Draco finished. “So I’ll find him, and you—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hermione snapped. “We’re getting _them_ out together.”

“Fine.” Draco ran a hand through his hair. “Then I have another question.”

“What?”

“Do you want them to survive?”

“Who?”

“The people who took Harry and Ron. I’m a monster, Granger. And I’m going to be starving when we get there.”

Hermione looked into his eyes. “You won’t kill anyone.”

“I’m not making any promises. Is that a risk you’re willing to take?”

Hermione looked at him for a long while. “Harry wouldn’t want you to kill anyone.”

“Well, I’m probably going to die for him, so I don’t give a shit.”

Hermione took his arm. “Do you love him?”

Draco looked away. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

“If you love him the way I love Ron, you’ll show restraint. Because you know if you rip those people apart to save him, he’ll never forgive you.”

“I don’t care if never forgives me, Hermione.” Draco said. “He already hates me. I’ve done enough that he’ll hate me for the rest of the life. I care if he’s _alive_. Wouldn’t you do the same, to save Weasley?”

Something darkened in Hermione’s eyes. “I don’t know.”

Draco nodded. “You aren’t sure. But I can’t deny what I am.”

Hermione was silent for a long moment. Her hand went to a chain around her neck with a pendant in the middle, a golden circle with some kind of engraving. “We’ll save them.” She said.

“Whatever it takes.” Draco agreed.

Hermione bent her head to her book again, her brow furrowed, and Draco settled back against the headrest.

It didn’t matter if Harry would never forgive him. It didn’t matter if Draco became a monster, crossed that invisible line he’d been toeing ever since Harry left.

It only mattered if he lived.

Draco felt his fangs lengthen.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do to save Harry Potter.

**HARRY**

When Harry next awoke, it was morning. He could hear birds chirping from outside the window.

For a moment, he didn’t remember what had happened. Didn’t remember why he felt so exhausted, why his eyes felt sticky and puffy, as though he’d been crying—

Then he remembered.

“Ron?” Harry’s mouth felt dry. He groped around the floor until he found one of the bottles of water they’d been leaving at his cell for the last few days. He took a few swallows, then said, a little louder, “Ron? Are you alright?”

There was a groan from the cell opposite him. With an effort, Harry maneuvered himself so that he was sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Ron, talk to me. I need to know that you’re alright.”

The figure across from him, a mound of maroon and orange, finally stirred. Ron unwound his lanky limbs and pulled himself to a sitting position, using the bars as leverage. “M ‘fine.” Ron mumbled. “I just wanna go home.”

“They can’t have taken our magic permanently,” Harry said. “It’s part of us. We _are_ magic.”

Ron looked at him mournfully. “I’ve never felt so awful in my life. Even when they were torturing Hermione. Even with the Dementors. I’ve never felt so—helpless.” He put his head into his hands, and when he raised it again, his cheeks were streaked with tears and dirt. “How are we supposed to get out of here?”

“I don’t believe they’ve taken our magic forever.” Harry said firmly. “There must be some way for us to get it back. And we’re going to figure it out.”

But Ron but his head back in his hands, digging his palms into his eyes. “Where’s Hermione when you need her?”

“We’re going to break out of here,” Harry got to his feet and looked around the cell, swaying a little as he did so. He felt dizzy and weak, and his heart seemed to flutter in his chest. “There’s got to be a way. Come on, help me.” He ran his hand along the iron bars and the solid stone wall, hoping for some jolt of electricity, a buzz of another presence. Some indication that his magic had not entirely deserted him.

Ron clambered to his feet and began to feel the walls around his cell, but Harry could tell by the heaviness in his steps that he found it difficult, too.

Is this what it felt like without magic? What if they couldn’t ever get it back?

How could they ever hope to survive?

_There has to be some way to get it back,_ Harry thought. _There_ has _to._

“D’you think Hermione’s coming to get us?” Ron turned to Harry after running his hands along a wall, his expression hopeful.

“She’s--I’m sure she’s coming.” Harry said. “Just takes a while to get backup, going to London and all.” 

Ron’s brow furrowed. “Right. Yeah. It’s just—usually I can feel our link.” He held up his necklace for Harry’s inspection. “The magic links us to each other, kind of like with the Deluminator. But since—since we got here, I’ve felt—nothing.”

Harry tried desperately not to make his voice shake. “Maybe it’s the distance.” 

Ron shook his head. “The spell works over long distances. She said it would help her find me, if we ever got separated. I could always find my way back to her.” Ron’s eyes were wet again, and his chin trembled

Harry reached a hand through the bars, straining with his shoulders. He was just able to grasp at the fingertips of Ron’s outstretched, trembling hand. “They told me—” he began, then started again. “The witch told me—they ‘took care’ of her.”

“’Took care’ of her?’” Ron had turned pale beneath his freckles, and his fingers caught Harry’s in a vise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Before Harry could answer, the door burst open.

“Potter, you really shouldn’t tell him our evil plan.” The witch leaned against the wall casually, her eyes hooded and dangerous. “It changes, you see.”

“Did you kill her?” Ron shouted. “DID YOU KILL HERMIONE?”

The witch flicked her wand, and Ron slumped against the wall, shrieking in pain. “Your Mudblood friend was of no use to us. We disposed of her.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. “You killed her.”

The woman inspected a nail. “I’d be much more worried about yourselves, if I were you. After all, once our main phase of the experiment is complete, you’ll be as expendable as the Mudblood.”

“So you _do_ need us alive.” Harry fought to lock his grief and shock at Hermione passing in a box, far deep inside him. He had to keep it together. He had to save Ron, at least. What for?”

The woman smiled, and Harry saw for the first time that she had slit-pupiled eyes, and a curious pattern to her skin. Her dress, which he’d thought to be make of a shimmering material resembling snakeskin, seemed to be reforming and unfurling before their very eyes, the hues changing subtly through every whirl of fabric.

“That,” she said. “Is part of our inscrutable evil plan. I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”

Before Harry could ask anything else, she disappeared back through the door.

Ron crumpled on the floor in a heap, sobs wracking through him, “Hermione,” he kept murmuring, over and over. _“Hermione.”_

“Ron.” Harry reached for his hand again, but he couldn’t reach it. “Ron.” He said, louder. “RON.”

Finally, Ron looked up at him.

“We have to get out of here.”

“How? We don’t have any magic. These damned—bars—aren’t going anywhere. And Hermione—” He started to cry again. “She isn’t coming!”

Harry looked up at the cameras. “We’ve got to do something they won’t expect,” he said carefully.

“Jump them as soon as they get us out of our cell? Sounds good to me.”

“No,” Harry shook his head. “I think we should—”

But the door swung open again, and the cowboy and witch reemerged. The cowboy pointed his wand at Ron’s cell door, which burst open.

Ron got to his feet, cracking his knuckles. He swayed, as though drunk, but his blue eyes were narrowed in fury. “Let’s go, cowboy.”

The cowboy rolled his eyes. _“Imperio.”_

Ron stiffened, standing up absurdly straight.

“What are you doing?” Harry shouted as Ron walked out of his cell, his face smooth and blank, tears still falling from his eyes. “Where are you taking him?” The cowboy followed him, his wand held aloft like a puppeteer.

“That’s not your concern,” the witch said. “We’ll return him in one piece—more or less.”

Harry hoped that Ron would be able to throw off the Imperius Curse, like Harry had been helping him to do. Hoped that he’d have the good sense to run, to get help before these wizards hurt anybody else.

“I’ll be back for _you_ later,” the witch winked. “The Chosen One is a fascinating specimen. We’ve never had the Object of a fulfilled prophecy before. The properties your magic possesses—well” she waved her wand again, and parts of her dress solidified into daggers, driving at Harry’s face.

Harry’s hands flew up to protect himself, but he felt something curious as the daggers got closer. A warmth, a sense of comfort.

He looked up. The daggers had disappeared into ashes, collecting in piles at his feet. He probed them with his finger—there was the same sense of power—the same spark. It seemed to jump into his skin, and for a moment, Harry felt a surge of strength.

“Is that—”

The witch grinned. “Magic transfer.”

“But—that’s impossible! You can’t transfer magic.”

“Well, not permanently. Magic doesn’t work against its original wizard, and it diminishes the longer its away from its host. But I’m hoping to eliminate that.”

“How?”

“Well,” the witch twirled her wand over in her fingers. “If you were dead, for instance, what might happen to your magic?”

“It would die with me.” Harry said. “It’s _part_ of me. I _am_ magic. You won’t get away with this!”

The witch’s eyes flashed. “I admire your persistence, even if it is misplaced. Until next time, Mr. Potter.”

The door slammed, and Harry slumped against the wall. He sat there like that for a while, his head hidden in the crook of his elbow, hoping they’d think he’d gone to sleep, but his mind was racing.

He could still feel that surge of warmth inside him, a tiny flicker of his magic.

Harry carefully scooted back in his cell to where he’d flung his wand against the wall in frustration, after his magic had continued to fail. He picked it up and held it close to his chest, feeling it warm against his heart.

Then he eyed the tiny rock he’d kicked to the corner of his cell.

Careful to keep most of his body hidden, he practiced the movement he’d learned so long ago. _“Wingardium, Leviosa.”_

The pebble trembled.

**DRACO**

“I hate Americans,” Draco said. “And I don’t care who knows it.”

“Since we’re in one of the most security-heavy, aggressively American places in the world,” Hermione said. “I’d really prefer you keep your voice down.”

“They made a fake Europe. How tacky.” Draco looked up at the fake Eiffel Tower. “And inaccurate.”

“You’re staring.”

“Everyone’s staring.” Draco said. “Half of these people are off their faces, and it’s only 10:30.”

Hermione grabbed him by the arm. “C’mon, we need to go over our plan.” She walked him over to a set of chairs on the patio. Fake Paris even had a fake bistro. It was disgusting.

“Can I get you anything?”

“How did your lot win the war of American Independence?” Draco asked the waiter, who was stunningly attractive, with bright blonde hair and tattoos. “How did we lose to _you_?”

The waiter shrugged, biting on his lip ring. “Maybe it you hadn’t worn bright red coats because you cared more about being ostentatious than actually winning battles, we wouldn’t have whooped your asses. And technically, you lost _twice._ War of 1812.” 

Draco smirked. “I suppose you have a point. But I think we’d have you beaten now.”

The waiter smiled back, and Draco noticed his eyes were a pale green, like seaglass. “I think you could _try_.”

“If you’re done,” Hermione interrupted caustically. “We’d like two coffees, please.” She glared at the waiter until he walked away, shooting Draco an appraising gaze over his shoulder.

“This is Vegas.” Draco said to Hermione’s disapproving expression. “And he had such startling eyes—” In fact, they’d reminded him of Harry’s eyes. They had that ability to change color, to darken with desire or widen in surprise. And the way he’d bit his lip ring. Delicious.

“If you could please stop flirting with every attractive person in our vicinity—"

“So you _do_ find him attractive. You’re just jealous!”

“I have a boyfriend!”

“And I’m rescuing Potter.” Draco retorted. “We all have our shortcomings.”

Hermione let out a huff of frustration. “We need to focus. If we get caught or killed—”

“Merlin, Granger, you sound like Mad-Eye. Death around every corner! Constant vigilance!”

“He wasn’t exactly wrong!” 

“But he still died.” Draco said.

Hermione seemed to be fighting an internal war. Finally, she said. “Let’s just focus. Can you tell where Potter is?”

“Of course I can.” Draco had started feeling the tug the moment they’d crossed into the state of Nevada, by the pilot’s designation. It felt like a string tied to his stomach, pulling him inexorably in the same direction. “He’s definitely that way.” Draco pointed to the West.

Hermione did not look motivated by this information. “Can’t you feel anything? Do you know if he’s alright? Where are they?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Draco said, to buy himself time. He had been seeing things, feeling things—extreme weakness, the bleak walls of a cell, iron bars, bolts of pain, startling terror, a flash of light…. “I’m not channeling his spirit.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “But _concentrate_.”

“Fine.” Draco closed his eyes, then opened them a moment later. “I can’t feel anything. Happy?”

“Why aren’t you taking this seriously? You agreed to help me.”

“Maybe I don’t think it’s worth the overpriced airfare and shitty food. Speaking of,” Draco craned his neck. “Where is that waiter? I’m starving.”

Hermione kicked him in the shins.

“Ouch! What the hell, Granger?”

“You’re doing this because you love Harry. Don’t pretend you don’t.” Hermione reached in her bag and pulled out a thermos. “Here.”

“What is this?” 

“O-Neg. Courtesy of Las Vegas Memorial.”

“When did you have time to get blood?”

“I have my ways. Besides, at the hotel you took a shower that was like, four years long.”

“I’m shocked, Granger! You stole blood!” Draco wagged the thermos at her. “How could you? Lives could be lost—"

“Drink and tell me what you see when you feel Harry.”

“I don’t see anything—”

“You’re lying.”

Draco took a sip, refusing to take the bait. “Why would I lie?”

“Because you’re going to go in there, grab Harry, and leave Ron to die.”

Draco frowned. “You know, you’re quite an accomplished Legilimens. The Dark Lord should have recruited you.”

“I’m not a Legilimens.” Hermione said. “I just have common sense. And we’re going together, or not at all. So _tell me what you saw.”_

Draco guzzled down some more blood. “Fine. They’re in a prison. He’s--in pain. I think they’re still alive, but I could be wrong. I didn’t see Ron anywhere.” He tried to keep his voice nonchalant, but there was definitely a twinge in his gut. Harry was in terrible danger, and he was hurting.

They had to get him out. Had to.

Hermione nodded. “Underground or above ground?”

“Underground.”

“What was the weather like?”

‘Oh, you know. Balmy. Slight breeze. Fuck if I know, Hermione. I’m not a fucking crystal ball!”

“A crystal ball would be more reliable! We’re going in blind!”

“I thought that was the point. Come roaring in, spells blazing. Blast them the fuck out of there.” 

Hermione tapped her fingers on the table. “They’re obviously going to have some defenses. Maybe if we did something like when we snuck into the Ministry—”

“You mean where you got caught, compromised your hiding place, and broke Potter’s wand?”

“How do you know about all that?” 

“Harry talks in his sleep.”

Hermione smirked, and Draco blushed. “I mean, just when we were in quarantine. It was a bit annoying, actually.”

“Did you fall asleep holding hands?” Hermione sneered. “With _Harry_?”

“You know what? I’m going to see when that waiter gets off.” Draco stood. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but he was already disappearing inside the restaurant. He passed tourists posing in front of a cardboard cutout of the Eiffel Tower, a gift shop where tourists could buy little miniature towers for their home. “Ridiculous,” Draco scoffed, checking the price tag. “Everything about this town is fake.”

He pushed through the tourists and lounged against the bar, scanning the area coolly.

“Thought you’d come looking for me.” The waiter appeared at his elbow almost as though he’d been conjured there.

Draco looked him up and down, slowly. “Thought I would complain.” He drawled. “Horrendous service.”

“I like that accent,” the waiter leaned against the bar and crossed his arms. “What’s life like ‘across the pond’?” He said the last part in a singsong, mockingly British voice.

Draco narrowed his eyes, and he could practically see the waiter swoon.

Americans were so easy.

“What took you so long?” Hermione hissed as Draco finally stumbled back through the doors, his shirt askew and his hair mussed.

“I was busy.”

“Oh clearly!” Hermione said, her voice rising an octave. “You hooked up with him!”

“I wouldn’t call it that—"

“Why would you do this? We’re wasting time!”

“Shh.” Draco sat across from her and started adjusting his shirt. “I didn’t hook up with him; I just had to get him alone. Turns out he’s a wizard.”

Hermione did not look convinced. “A wizard? Working at a Muggle shop?”

“Somebody out here’s hunting wizards,” Draco said.

“They were experimenting on Muggles,” Hermione argued. “There was nothing to indicate—”

“He says he had a few friends investigating for MACUSA. All of them were following reports of disappeared Muggles. Authorities thought it was some kind of kidnapper. They tracked them to the desert, posing as a group of Muggle tourists. Is that a croissant?” Draco took a bite, then spat it out. “God, that’s revolting.” Hermione handed him the thermos, and he took a long sip before continuing.

‘Our waiter managed to Disapparate when it went south. His friends weren’t so lucky. He found their bodies a few miles away three days later. Been hiding ever since. Wizards and Muggles are disappearing daily, usually the ones nobody will miss—runaways, showgirls, stage magicians—the kind desperate enough for money or fame that they’d follow someone into the desert.”

Hermione looked around. “How did you find out all this? What did you do?”

Draco shrugged. “He asked if I had any ‘party favors.’”

“What did you give him?”

“A nice little cocktail. Veritaserum, mixed in with some other stuff. He’ll have a terrible headache tomorrow, and he won’t remember a thing.” Draco smiled widely. “It’s a concoction of my own creation.”

“Did you give him this before or after you drank most of his blood?”

“There’s a Blood Replenishing agent in there. He’ll be fine.”

Hermione sighed. “How are we supposed to get in there?”

Draco grinned wolfishly. He sprinkled a couple of blonde hairs into her tea.

“You aren’t serious.”

“He also told me that they need gold. They’re in desperate need of an investor. One who quietly supports their cause from afar. One who is so well-known that he’ll be let in without question. One with large sums of money and no conscience. I’ve already sent an owl to make the necessary introductions, and an initial payment just to get them interested.”

Hermione picked up one of the hairs and held it to the light. “And I assume they know me too well for me not to be disguised?”

“You lot are famous the world over, apparently. And Polyjuice Potion doesn’t even work on vampires. You’ll be my cousin, Abraxas.”

“I’m not wearing the lip ring.”

“Do what you want,” Draco said. “But I think it would look stunning on you.”

Hermione got to her feet. “Give me a couple of minutes.” She rummaged in her bag. “I have some of Ron’s old robes—”

Draco put his hand on her arm. “We can’t go yet!”

“What are you talking about? There’s no time to waste—they must be in terrible danger.”

“They aren’t expecting us until seven. Besides, I’m Draco Malfoy. You think I’m going anywhere in _this?”_ Draco gestured to the sweatpants and t-shirt he’d put on for the plane. “We’re going shopping.”

**HARRY**

Ron did not return.

Harry tried desperately to hear something, anything, coming from further inside the facility. The sound of footsteps, the beep of electronic security monitors, the slide of a door being opened, _anything._

But he heard only the soft _plink_ of rain hitting the top of the prison. Saw only the sunlight through his window as it got weaker and weaker, until the automatic fluorescent lights kicked on.

He kept his wand in his hand, but he hadn’t managed to do much more than move the rock in the intervening hours. Even that effort exhausted him—it was like trying to pick up a tiny pebble with oven mitts. Everything was clumsy and awkward, and he still couldn’t do any more complex spells.

There was no way magic would help him escape.

Harry sat back against the wall, his mind whirring through possibility after possibility, discarding them one after the other. He’d never planned to be in a situation where magic itself was unavailable to him, where he’d have a magical instrument but no power to channel through it.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. _I’ll have to jump them,_ Harry thought. _If I do it while they’re moving me, I might be able to catch them by surprise--_

He leaned against the wall and tucked his head into his chest, cradling his wand. At least, if he was killed in the struggle, it would be a painless death. Quick and easy.

Already, the lack of magic inside of him made him feel old and exhausted. Harry fought to keep his eyes open, afraid that closing them would mean they never opened again.

But eventually, sleep took him…

And he dreamed…

There was a mysterious fog clouding his vision. Black and thick like smoke; he groped through it. Sound was muffled, but he could hear the edges of a conversation. The clatter of dishes and plates.

And Harry could feel Draco, through the fog. He felt him like a secret, like a whisper in his ear and a chill down his spine. He could _feel_ him, but he wasn’t there. Draco was looking for something, or someone…or was it Harry who was doing the seeking?

Harry reached out, but his fingers brushed only air. He got a flash of impressions: Hermione’s exasperated expression, the thrill of a kill, the sweet taste of blood.

And for the tiniest bit of a moment, bright green eyes, framed by glasses. A surge of _something_ roared to life inside him, something that Harry only knew because he recognized it.

He had felt it every time he’d looked at Draco, since Draco had drank his blood during quarantine. He’d felt it when he’d refused Draco at the party, when Draco had pressed him against the wall at his mother’s funeral. Every day that Draco had sneered at him at the Ministry. Every moment since he’d been aware of it, that feeling had been there.

If he was honest with himself, he’d felt some hint of it before, through every duel, every sparring match in the Great Hall, the fight in the bathroom, that horrible night atop the lightning-struck tower.

_I love him,_ Harry thought, but the thoughts weren’t his. They were someone else’s, someone who knew him through this bond and beyond it, someone across a gulf of miscommunication and pain and death. _I love you, Harry. Where are you?_

When Harry awoke, there were tears in his eyes, and his wand burned hot against his chest.

But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

There were footsteps coming down the hallway.

And the door swung open…


	11. The Damsel in Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I actually am sure that there's 13 chapters now. Well, 12 chapters and an epilogue, because I've drafted everything. Yay!
> 
> Hermione and Draco enter the facility in a swashbuckling, heroic rescue attempt. Harry's ass needs saving for once. Finally. 
> 
> Shoutout to @tearinmyarc for helping edit, especially since I was on Benadryl (again) when I wrote this chapter, and I uh--sleep-wrote?!?! Nonsense?!?! So thanks for catching that. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for everyone who's read, left kudos, commented, etc. It's been a wild ride, but we're almost there, y'all.

**CHAPTER 11: THE DAMSEL IN DISTRESS**

**DRACO**

Granger transformed into the male wizard without much difficulty, though she’d been irritated that Draco hadn’t even managed to catch his name.

“That’s a good thing, right?” Draco protested, “We want to make sure none of this is traced back to him!”

Hermione’s disapproving expression looked curious on the waiter’s face, but it still had the same power. “Are you ready, or do you need to look in the mirror one more time?”

“You know, I’m so relieved that the myth about vampires and mirrors turned out not to be true.” Draco shuddered. “I don’t know what I would have done.” 

“Can we just go?” Hermione tapped her wand against her leg. “We’re wasting time.”

Draco offered his arm, and they stepped into the crushing darkness together.

A tall wizard with silver streaks in his hair met them at the entrance. He was dressed in a pewter gray suit, paired incongruously with cowboy boots and hat, and he had a piece of grass stuck between his teeth. “Evenin’” he said as they approached, offering his hand for Draco and Hermione to shake. “Name’s Heath Bolton.”

“Ah, the Boltons.” Draco nodded obsequiously. “My father spoke very highly of you.”

The cowboy’s eyes twinkled. “I’m mighty pleased to hear that, Mr. Malfoy. And this must be your cousin—Abraham—”

“Abraxas.” Hermione snapped, glaring at him coldly. “And we aren’t concerned with pleasantries, Mr. Bolton. Show us your research. I have a degree in Healing, and I’m not easily impressed.”

“Of course, of course.” The cowboy tipped his hat, but there was a slight edge to his voice when he said, “First we’ll meet up with my associate. This way.”

The cowboy waved his wand, and the desert floor in front of them shimmered to reveal a staircase, well-lit and ornate, descending below in a tight spiral.

Draco and Hermione exchanged glances. This was their last chance to get out. They’d both agreed that they could issue an early signal; a message from Draco’s father or a sudden illness, if it seemed like the game was up.

And Draco certainly did not like the look in the cowboy’s eyes.

But he could feel Harry like he was under his skin. He could feel a cold stone floor, and a sense of agony and hopelessness.

Draco wasn’t going to leave without Harry, even if it meant he had to die here himself.

Draco started down the stairs first, hurrying so that he was several steps ahead of the others. The staircase descended through the center of an opulent lounge. Golden carpeting adorned the floors, and the walls had tasteful, elegant paintings of wizards and magical creatures. The figures in the paintings blinked at him sedately as he descended, seemingly unbothered by his presence.

When he reached the bottom, he was greeted by a floating tray of champagne. Draco plucked a glass and sipped it, his taste buds alert for any hint of drugs.

But it seemed to be just expensive, sweet champagne. He took another glass and handed it to Hermione as she descended, stiff-legged and awkward in the waiter’s enormous feet.

While the cowboy was descending the stairs, another woman emerged. She was dressed in black robes, patterned in the style of snakeskin. They seemed to ripple and undulate as she moved, changing hues every time the fabric caught the light. Now golden, now green, now red.

The woman herself looked to be in her thirties, with an austere and fierce expression. She shook Draco’s hand firmly and looked into his eyes. “Madame Dijikstra,” she said. “Though you may call me Diane, if that suits you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Draco said, trying not to reveal how much her iron grip was crushing his fingers, or the wave of energy he’d felt emanate from her. It was like standing too close to a furnace. His nose wrinkled—how was the woman emanating magic?

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, but he kept his expression placid. Hermione knelt to kiss the woman’s hand, “Abraxas,” she murmured, holding her hand just a little bit too long. “Delighted.”

The woman pulled her hand away, running the other over it, as though to rub away Hermione’s lips. “I was so excited to get your owl,” she said. “Heath and I have made such progress, and I would hate for our research to be shut down at such a crucial juncture.” She took a step back, surveying them both through narrowed eyes. May I say,” she added. “The two of you look stunning.”

Draco straightened his tie and shot a smug look over at Hermione. They both wore silk, three-piece suits. While Hermione had opted for the simpler, black option (they’d had to guess at the waiter’s measurements, and she’d already been about to murder Draco for how long he’d been spending in the shop), Draco was bedecked in a brilliant blue and gray floral suit that set off his coloring perfectly and made his eyes nearly glow in the setting sun.

“Likewise,” Hermione said, letting her gaze linger on the woman’s toned calves. Draco pretended to cough so as to hide his surprise and amusement. Hermione’s attempt at flirting came off the way her magic did: startling and overtly intense.

Madame Dijikistra, however, seemed unperturbed by her odd behavior. “We’ll start in the lab,” she said smoothly, gesturing toward a hallway to her left, which was festooned with bright orbs of light. “There are some new trials that look promising.”

Bolton took her arm, and the two led them down the hallway. Draco tried to peer into the windows, but all he saw were empty cubicles, a few scraps of parchment and broken quills, a wastepaper bin that hadn’t been properly emptied. He even saw a Muggle copy machine, the light blinking a dull orange color, as he peered in through an open door.

“They need money a lot more than they’re letting on,” Draco said to Hermione out of the corner of his mouth, keeping his eyes locked on the couple ahead of them.

“There’s something off about that woman,” Hermione said. “Something’s not right.”

“If she’s rejecting your advances, Granger, it’s because she’s a human being.”

Hermione’s eye roll looked ludicrous on the waiter’s face. “Ha ha. She’s exuding magic. Bolton is strong as well, but her—"

Draco nodded. “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

“Well, I still think I should do the flirting from now on. You flirt like a serial killer.”

“Oh, look who’s—”

“Here we are,” Heath shot them a suspicious glance over his shoulder. “If we’re not interrupting.”

“My apologies, Mr. Bolton. We were just discussing our dinner plans,” Draco said. “Would you two mind joining us at the Eiffel Tower’s restaurant later this evening?”

“I’m surprised a European would eat there,” Bolton frowned. His eyes darted between Draco and Hermione as though trying to catch one of them lying.

“When in Rome—” Hermione shrugged.

“Let’s worry about our dinner plans later.” Madame Dijikstra smiled at them in a way that made Draco’s skin crawl. “This is where we house our most promising specimens. I think you’ll be very pleased with our results.”

“Specimens?” Draco asked, trying to sound fascinated and not apprehensive. “What do you mean?”

Madame Dijikstra and Mr. Bolton shared a conspiratorial glance. “The biggest threat to a pureblood society are Muggleborns,” Dijikstra began. As she spoke, she paced back and forth in front of the doorway, like a professor at lecture. “Thieves of our magic, there are more and more of them each generation. They dilute the bloodlines of even the most pure wizarding families, threatening the sanctity of our way of life and that of magic itself. And where do these Muggleborns come from?”

“No one knows,” Hermione said, unable to resist the impulse to answer her question. “Some people are born with magic, and some aren’t,”

Dijikstra smiled like Bellatrix had smiled, moments after she’d found out Draco was a vampire. “That is what they _want_ you to believe. All the liberal governments and elites, too concerned with equality to see that their heads are up their own asses. Indeed, such messaging is a prominent reason why your Dark Lord failed. He built his ideas under superstition and speculation, easily debunked at every turn by the _larger narrative_. _We,_ however, are using something even more sinister, subtle and effective. Science.”

“Science?” Draco broke in. “I don’t understand.”

“With a great deal of experimentation, we have managed to procure magic from magic-wielders, and transfer it to the nonmagical.”

Draco and Hermione were silent for a moment, stunned. “That’s impossible.” Hermione said finally.

“I thought our goal was to maintain a pureblood society.” Draco added. “Why create more people who can’t do magic?”

“With our devices, all pureblood families can assure that their magic remains pure, undiluted. They simply take the instrument and siphon off the magical energy from a witch or wizard who, let’s say, doesn’t _deserve_ such a special gift, and deliver it to a more _fitting_ recipient. There will be no more Squibs, no more Muggleborns. Magic only to those who deserve it, and for a price, of course.”

“That’s—” Hermione began, and Draco could tell by the way her hand twitched toward her pocket that she was trying desperately to control herself. “We _are_ magic.” 

Dijikistra shook her head. “ _We_ are magic.” She corrected. “Yourself, Mr. Mafoy, withches and wizards of a purely magical heritage. But a Mudblood? Someone who by accident of birth managed to get the gifts that were rightfully ours? They have _stolen_ our magic. We are simply taking it back. Where weaker people would see theft, I see justice. The scales are balanced, and the magical world remains forever separate from the nonmagical.”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask something else, but Draco held up a hand. “This is all very alluring, but I’ve seen no proof. For all I know, you’re some crackpot with a journal and too much time on your hands. Have you successfully tested this— _siphon_ —on any actual magic users?”

They chuckled. “I thought you’d say that.” Bolton said. “Which is why I told Diane we had to _show_ you..” he traied off. “Right this way.” He made a sweeping motion, and ushered Draco and Hermione through the door.

Draco felt Hermione tense beside him, the small gasps of horror she made at what she saw. He himself, in spite of all he’d seen and done under Voldemort, felt a wave of nausea coming on. He grasped her hand in his own and squeezed it. _Not yet,_ he tried to communicate, even though her eyes were fixed on what was before them, and he could see the rage building behind them. _Watch. Wait._

Cages lined the walls of the room. They had iron bars, like old prison cells, equipped with a mattress and a place for washing. Each cell was just barely wide enough for a person to lie down in, and they were packed close to one another like sardines.

But it wasn’t the grim living arrangements that caught Draco and Hermione’s attention.. It was the prisoners. . They were skinny, some of them emaciated. They glared at them with hooded eyes, but didn’t move. A few didn’t even stir from where they lay in a heap. Draco could hear their heartbeats, alternately rapid and slow, the heartbeats of constant panic and fear, the slow thud fo the dying.

What was even more unsettling was the obvious misery on their faces. There was no getting out for them, and they knew it. It was the kind of desperation Draco had seen on Ollivander’s face, while he awaited Voldemort’s questioning. It was something he’d never hoped to see again.

“So these are the Muggles?” Draco asked.

“Precisely. These are our Muggle test subjects. We’ve imbued each of them with a tiny sliver of magic, just enough to get the blood flowing, so to speak. Then we test their abilities by putting them in a situation where they might need it—something of severe emotional or physical distress: fights for resources or starvation, for example.

“And? Can they use magic?”

“Somewhat.” The woman wrinkled her nose dismissively. “But they’re rather clumsy with it, and the power seems to diminish the longer they hold it. Without constant infusions, they are mere Muggles again. And magic, after all, is in limited supply. We cannot simply make more.”

“So you use Muggleborns as—” Hermione began.

“I call them livestock,” Dijikistra said. “I need a certain type of course—witches and wizards who come into full realization and control of their powers are best—the magic increases with awareness.”

“Who are they?” Draco gestured to a set of cells pressed against the back wall. These cells lacked the light and minimal warmth of the others, and indeed, Draco saw quite a few of the prisoners shivering under their blankets.

“We’ve been testing the effects on wizards, as well. Purely for research purposes, of course. I myself have been able to imbibe wizarding magic, and even do a thing or two with it that I never could before.”

Draco stepped closer, barely bothering to conceal his hope, searching the huddled figures—

But Hermione’s gasp wasn’t one of recognition. It was horror. “They’re _dying.”_ Some of these subjects are dead!”

“We have to get magic somehow,” Dijiksra said matter-of-factly. Most witches and wizards cannot withstand the procedure. Their bodies waste away at an exponential rate, and they experience weakness, dizziness, loss of vision….We have discovered that if we re-infuse them with the magic, they recover somewhat. Though of course, that is a significant security risk.”

“I see.” Draco kept his expression neutral, even though his hands were nearly shaking with rage. “So you _haven’t_ found any success.”

“I don’t think—” Bolton interrupted.

“Your Muggle subjects waste away. Your wizard subjects die. The magic takes up no permanent residency. What exactly is my money funding here? More death?”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Madame Dijikstra said, placing a placating hand on Draco’s arm. “I can assure you that we have made progress. We’ve simply had to make—adjustments to our earlier timeline.”

“Remove. Your. Hand.” Draco met her eyes, willing his fangs not to emerge. He wanted to attack her. To tear her apart until she told him where Harry was, then get them the hell out of there.

He couldn’t spend one more second pretending to be this person, the one he’d been during the war, who sneered at wanton destruction and cared only for himself and no one else. _I swore I’d never be this again,_ Draco thought. _Monster or no, I swore never to be part of evil again, no matter how much easier it is._

“Apologies,” Dijikstra said, withdrawing her hand. “But you must see that your funding will cause us to make progress. Undeniable, world-altering progress!”

“You’re going to need to do better than empty platitudes, Madame Dijikstra.”

Dijikistra nodded. “Of course.” She raised her wand, and Hermione flinched. There was a _whomp,_ and all the lights went out.

“Oh, great,” Draco said sarcastically, trying to cover up his unease. “You’ve become a human Deluminator. You know, I think my considerable fortune could be better spent elsewhere, and I’m sure my father would—”

He stopped. The lights were back on, but something had changed. The witch was floating above him, and her dress had changed. Instead of fabric that twisted, furling and unfurling in different panels and sheens, the dress had become a collection of serpents, writhing and reforming, collecting so that they slithered across the floor.

Draco tentatively stepped toward one, thinking it mere illusion, but the snake hissed and struck. Only his vampire reflexes saved him from being bitten, and he could feel the _whoosh_ of air as the snake’s fangs nearly missed him.

“You—created these snakes?” Hermione said from beside him. Her wand was out, and she was speaking without taking her eyes off the snakes. “How? Magic cannot create living things!”

“I have undergone a power transfer recently. You see, I realized something—” she waved her wand, and the snakes disappeared. She sank gracefully to the ground, her dress merely fabric again. “Why should we only be getting this power from Muggleborns, who of course have no right to their magic, no natural ability. Why not get a few subjects who are more— _intrinsically_ powerful? Subjects who have _generations_ of magic in their veins.”

She descended, and Bolton took her hand. He glowed for a moment, bright as a sudden flare on a deserted island. “I was once a Squib,” Bolton said. “An embarrassment and dishonor to my entire family, I volunteered for the initial experiments, but Diane refused. She’s sweet on me,” he shot a glance her way, and they smiled at each other. Draco felt nausea rise up in his throat.

“And now?” Draco asked.

“Now, Heath can perform magic as well as any fully trained wizard. It has been 3 days since his transfusion, since _our_ transfusion, and our powers have only increased. They show no signs of diminishing.”

“You took magic from pureblood wizards?”

“A blood traitor and a half-blood.” Dijikstra waved a hand. “A rather—special half-blood.”

Draco frowned, though his heart leapt. “So what is to keep you from taking power from me? Or my cousin?”

“For the moment, that we do not want it,” Heath said. He waved his wand, and a long, metal rod with a crimson jewel appeared in his hand. “However, should our visit prove to be unsuccessful…”

Draco gulped. He knew what they were counting on. Draco Malfoy had always been a coward. He wouldn’t take any risks; he’d do anything to save his own skin.

But that was before. Before he’d been bitten at the Battle of Hogwarts. Before he’d become a monster, able to tear apart anyone who so much as sneezed at him.

Before he’d fallen for a boy with dark hair and green eyes, who always did the right thing, who held him as his mother died and world broke apart, whispering the only words that Draco could hold onto in that moment. A boy who was so close, Draco could practically reach through their connection and touch him, so close that their feelings blended together, twining until there was no separating them.

_I know._

Draco dipped his head. “My father would certainly be interested in this,” he was careful to sound afraid, even though he could feel Hermione’s disdain beside him. “Perhaps if there was a place where we could draw up an agreement?”

“But wait!” Dijikstra said, grinning. “Isn’t there someone you’d like to see first?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.” Hermione said politely. “Who?”

“The prisoners who have successfully transferred their magic.”

Draco’s turned up his nose. “I don’t have patience for blood traitors and half-bloods,” he sneered, tapping the back of Hermione’s hand with his wand as he did so, silently signaling to her not to make a move, not yet. She was practically vibrating with rage, and it was hard to keep the duo’s focus on him.

“Oh, you’ll have patience for this one. I believe you are acquainted.” Dijikstra smiled serenely, and Draco felt Hermione tense beside him. ‘ _One,’_ Draco thought. _Then it could be Ron or Harry._

She walked over to the wall at the back of the room, which housed an enormous screen, showing video feeds of prisoners, the outside desert and guards patrolling, looking purposeful and deliberate. Dijikistra tapped a few commands into the screen, and the glowing image of a door appeared in the middle of it. She tapped the outline, and the image shimmered and became a doorway. “It’s time for you to see what we’re capable of,” she said, then disappeared inside.

Malfoy followed her in, not daring to glance at Hermione, who was still being watched by Bolton.

He knew what he would find through the doorway.

He’d already felt it.

When Dijikistra gestured to Harry’s cell, a triumphant grin on her face, Malfoy kept his face cool and neutral. Harry was crouched against the wall, seemingly asleep, but Malfoy could tell by the tension thudding through their connection that he was wide awake.

“Potter.” Draco whispered softly. “Now I’m impressed.”

He glanced at Hermione, who shook her head. They couldn’t attack, couldn’t raise the alarm, without knowing where Ron was.

“And I take it all of his magic is gone?” Draco asked.

“We took both of their magics.” Bolton said. “Potter and the blood traitor’s, Weaselby or something.”

Hermione’s hand went to the necklace around her neck. “Is there any chance of recovering it?” Draco could swear that her hair had started to take on a darker tinge, and her beard seemed to be getting thinner. The hour must be nearly up.

“Certainly,” Dijikstra said. “Once we get the rest of the world to cooperate. Imagine what people will pay to steal magic from the ‘Chosen One.’ I know quite a few Death Eaters who are desperate to have their revenge. The process is even more painful than the Cruciatus Curse.”

“Potter, a damsel in distress. I could never imagine.” Through the bond, Draco felt a flicker of irritation at that line.

“We’re working on a way for us to keep his magic from dissipating once he dies.” Bolton added. “The death of Harry Potter,” he whistled. “I’ve volunteered to do the honors, myself.”

“You’ll have to get in line.” Draco said, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. Hermione backed up slightly, sensing his change in tone, so that she was a fair distance from Bolton and Dijikstra. Her beard had nearly disappeared, and she seemed to be shrinking, the hair on her scalp expanding. Her hand drifted, ever so casually, to her pocket.

Dijikstra and Heath didn’t notice. Their eyes were fixed on Draco, who had taken a small step toward them, his eyes turning black. Draco tipped his head to the side and smiled in a way that would have made a demon proud. “I just have one question.” He gestured to the rod in Heath’s hand, and his fangs slid out. “That little device there—does it work on vampires?”

And then he attacked.

**HARRY**

Harry nearly let out a shout when Draco emerged, followed by a tall, handsome stranger. He bit his knuckles in an effort to keep silent, adjusting his position so that they’d still know he was sleeping.

He’d been ready to pounce, but Draco’s presence complicated things. What was he doing here? Who was the man with him? An accomplice? A _boyfriend?_

But Harry didn’t have much time to speculate. He could feel the tension building, catching along his spine and spreading outward.

He got to his feet just as Draco attacked, launching himself at the witch. They went down in a flurry of tangled limbs, and Harry felt a sudden burst of wet warmth as her blood splashed across his face.

_“Alohomora!”_ The stranger pointed his wand at Harry’s cell, and he wrenched the door open. He tried to go after the man, but the stranger was already dueling him. The floor beneath their feet became cracked and hot; the cowboy had prodigious skill, but the stranger was the best wizard Harry had ever seen. He seemed to have an almost superhuman ability to anticipate his opponent’s moves, whirling around spells and casting shields to cover Harry and Draco, who was still crouched over the woman’s prone body.

As Harry watched, the stranger moved his wand in a complicated motion. The cowboy fell to his knees, clutching his throat. But then with a violent movement, he ripped a gash across the stranger’s face.

The stranger staggered, bringing his hands to his eyes, and it was only now that Harry saw that his hair had grown bushy, that his suit was large and ill-fitting, that he was—

_“Hermione?”_

Harry couldn’t believe it. She was _alive._ A surge of hope went through him like lightning, and he leapt forward, tackling the cowboy to the ground. The cowboy’s wand clattered out of his reach. Harry grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the floor, but the cowboy dug his fingers into Harry’s eyes, and Harry released him, reeling.

The cowboy got to his feet, blood trickling from a wound in the back of his head. ” _STOP.”_ The word was a command, and Harry felt the Freezing Charm take hold. He could see Draco out of the corner of his eyes, frozen over the woman’s body, blood staining his chin. “What—” Draco hissed, his fangs still dripping blood. “Do you think you’re doing?”

The cowboy retrieved the rod from where it had fallen in the struggle. “Now, all this squabblin’s not good fer business. But, Mr. Malfoy, I already took the liberty of writing a letter to your father. Lucius is transferring the funds as we speak. And let’s be honest, it isn’t likely he’ll miss a son like you.”

Draco snarled helplessly.

Behind Harry, Hermione whimpered Ron’s name. He could hear the _drip_ of her blood as it splattered across the floor.

His muscles burned, and his chest ached. He still felt weak and exhausted, and even though his wand was in his hand, there was no magic to be had.

The cowboy held the scepter to Hermione’s head. “I don’t know how you tricked our guards into letting you go,” he said. “But it won’t happen again. You’re a Mudblood. You aren’t leaving this room alive.”

“LIKE HELL.” A large figure emerged and tackled the cowboy to the ground. They rolled over on the floor, the larger figure’s red hair flying, his fists pummeling the cowboy’s head over and over.

“RON.” Hermione shouted, reaching for him, the spell suddenly broken. Ron wrenched the rod out of the cowboy’s hands, but the cowboy swatted him across the face. Ron dropped it, and it rolled across the floor. Both men dove for it, and the cowboy snatched it up, but Ron elbowed him in the face and grappled with him for the rod.

“Ron, let me hit him!” Hermione pointed her wand at the pair, but they were wrestling too closely.

Finally, Ron kicked the cowboy in the knee, and he relaxed his grip just long enough for Ron to break free. He took the scepter and pressed it into the cowboy’s forehead. The man screamed in pain, but Ron only smiled and pushed it harder.

Finally, the screaming stopped, and the cowboy went limp. At the same time, Harry felt himself unfreeze.

“The witch,” Ron said. “Is she dead?”

“Definitely,” Draco said. “Damn Weasley, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Ron looked sheepish. “What do we do with this?” he held the rod gingerly, as though afraid it would go off. “We’re—”

But he was interrupted by Hermione, who rushed into his arms and kissed him through the blood that still trickled from the wound in her forehead.

“Oh Merlin, not this again,” said Harry.

Ron dropped the rod and wrapped his arms around Hermione, lifting her off her feet.

Harry exchanged a glance with Draco, and for a moment he wanted to do the same, rush into his arms and hold him there, hold him and never let him go again—

“OI. WE’RE ABOUT TO DIE.” Draco finally shouted, and they broke apart.

“But—your medallion!” Hermione said, still a little starry-eyed. “I thought you were dead.”

“They took our magic.” Ron held up the rod. “I don’t know if there’s a way to get it back. I think—it’s gone.”

But Hermione was unfazed. “Honestly, don’t you lot read? She took the rod, holding the gem up to the light so that it sparkled.. “A magical siphon is not a revolutionary concept. Dark wizards have been attempting it for centuries—there are even rumors that Niccolo Machiavellli used it to siphon power from wizards who threatened him.”

“Can we dispense with the history lesson and get to the point?” Draco asked, wiping the blood from his face with a spell. He waved his wand, and the wound in Hermione’s face began to knit closed. He waved his wand again, and the blood vanished. “You’re likely to faint from blood loss any minute anyway.”

“That was—sort of nice.” Ron said, bewildered. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Shut up, Weasley. I might still be hungry.”

Ron looked as though he were having a hard time grasping recent events. Or that might just be the bruise purpling over his eye. He glanced at the door. “They’re going to set off alarms. He won’t be down for long, and with most of us unable to do magic—”

“As I was saying.,” Hermione interrupted. “There is no way to permanently remove magic from someone without killing them, and no way for magic to exist once the person hosting it has died.”

“So the magic’s gone?’ Harry asked. “My magic? I’m—a Muggle?”

“Of course not.” Hermione said. “The magic goes into the nearest neutral object, typically the tool used to siphon it in the first place. That same tool will also transfer the wizard’s magic back, given the right spell.” She raised her wand and took the rod from Ron. Then, she started muttering a chant to herself, drawing it out until it resembled a song.

She repeated it over and over, and gradually Harry felt energy begin to return to his limbs. His wand started to warm in his hands, and he felt whole, as though a piece of him that had been missing had finally returned.

When she finished, Harry raised his wand. _“Expelliarmus!”_

Draco’s wand leapt out of his hand. Harry leapt forward and caught it, returning it to Draco with a laugh.

“You always have to use that damned spell,” Draco said. For a moment, his fingers lingered along the skin of Harry’s wrist, and Harry suddenly felt a surge of emotion, crackling between them. For a moment, snapshots raced through Harry’s mind.. All the fights. The kisses. Those desperate moments in the Room of Requirement. The bedroom at Narcissa’s funeral.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, his hand going up to touch his cheek.

Draco smiled softly, and his eyes shone with unshed tears. “Harry.”

_I’ve missed you,_ Harry thought. _I love you._

Draco blinked. _I know._

There were so many other things Harry wanted to say, things he wanted to do. He wanted to never leave this moment, to keep Draco _here_ , looking at him like this, for the rest of his life.

But a reality check arrived in the form of an alarm siren. The lights started to flash red, and an ear-splitting wail resounded throughout the facility.

“We need to go,” Hermione approached them, holding hands with Ron. “Once we get to the top, we should be able to Disapparate.”

But Harry wasn’t concerned. He wasn’t afraid.

He didn’t think he’d ever been this fearless in his life.

He turned to Draco. “Ten Galleons says I take down more guys than you, _Malfoy.”_

“You wish, _Potter.”_


	12. Grand Gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco wakes up suddenly, a few days after the conclusion of the events in Vegas. 
> 
> I got emotional writing this. It was a lot. Hope y'all like it :)

**CHAPTER 12: The Grand Gesture**

**DRACO**

The connection snapped apart like a bone breaking.

Draco sat bold upright, his heart racing, chest heaving, as a feeling of emptiness slowly spread inside him.

He couldn’t feel Harry anymore.

Draco brought his knees to his chest and leaned against the headboard, urging his heart rate to slow down, his breathing to even out. He closed his eyes, concentrating. Calling forth Harry’s voice, that feeling that had laced between them in Vegas, connecting once again when Harry had returned to London a few hours ago.

Draco arrived two days before, and the connection had become thinner, tenuous. Vague sentiment, caught like the dissipating waves of the ocean as they rolled onto the shore. But it was still there. Draco could call it up when he wanted, just to see if Harry was okay. To see if what had been between them remained.

As the silence stretched between them, the days lengthening, Draco had clung to that connection, the only proof of what had passed between them, that it hadn’t been a dream or his own wishful thinking. A connection that would never be severed.

And now even that was gone.

Harry had barely looked at him once they emerged from the facility, panting and bloodstained. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had begun to send Patronuses and Summon owls, and within hours, the American and British authorities had assembled in one of Treasure Island’s famed conference rooms to shout at each other.

The clean-up of the facility in Vegas had taken a great deal of forensics, paperwork, and interrogations, which Harry had volunteered to oversee, of course. Hermione and Ron took up flanking positions beside him, and it had been a treat, to see the American president, who had always claimed to be a more powerful wizard than any Brit, defer to the Chosen One’s accusing glare.

Draco had stood in the corner, inspecting his nails and ensuring that there was no blood left anywhere else on his person, doing his best to look unbothered by the fact that everyone seemed to be ignoring him. Thankfully, Hermione easily redirected all of the questions aimed at the state of Madame Dijikstra.

“Did she get torn apart by a wild animal? It would have been better to take her alive.” the American president asked.

“Oh, you know, Muggle fighting.” Granger said with a half-smile “It’s utterly brutal.”

The American president frowned and scratched his nose. “Well, I am glad that wizards settle things in a more—civilized manner.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Hermione kicked him under the table. Draco smirked. Potter was so _volatile._ Like a tinderbox hovering over an open flame.

He loved that temper, especially the way Potter’s simmering anger sent a burst of energy through his own veins.

But Potter, dammit, still wouldn’t _look_ at him.

Draco had thought they were together. He kept waiting for Harry to pull him aside, or into one of the fancy hotel rooms. For an opportunity to declare what they’d both felt, to seal it with their lips and bodies. For Draco to tell Harry how sorry he was that it had taken him this long.

But when Draco was finally bundled into the Portkey home, along with Shacklebolt and his retinue, after nearly a day of Potter wrangling the opposing countries into a cohesive unit and acting as though Draco were a piece of furniture, it occurred to him that maybe Potter didn’t _want_ to talk to him.

Draco couldn’t understand it. He had _saved_ him. Declared unilaterally that he’d risk everything. The moment they’d shared, through the bond, battling through the cadre of guards that faced them, was enough to assail Harry’s fears, to show him that Draco was all-in. 

But what if it didn’t matter that they loved each other? What if Draco’s grand gesture was too little, too late?

What if Harry just wanted to move on because he knew, like Draco always had, that there was no point in a love that sweeping, that all-encompassing?

It was too much for both of them.

Back in London, he waited, nursing that connection like a sputtering flame. He used a Muggle cell phone to keep in communication with Granger, who apparently seemed keen on the idea of them becoming running mates. Before he’d fallen asleep, she’d texted him that they’d just arrived back in London, that they were all heading in to get some rest. _“You’re to receive an Order of Merlin, First Class,”_ she said. “ _I’ve already discussed it with Kingsley.”_

Hermione hadn’t mentioned Harry, and Draco had been too embarrassed to ask. What if Potter didn’t want to talk to him? What if he was looking over her shoulder, making sure she didn’t say anything?

He’d gone to bed half-drunk on an entire bottle of Firewhiskey, trying to replay the night of graduation in his head, trying to reorient it so that he said all the right things, so that Harry ended up in his arms, so that none of this had ever even happened. When he finally slept, his dreams swirled with blood and green eyes, a sparkling, fatal gem, his mother’s voice.

And when the connection broke, he felt it like ice in his lungs. It hurt to breathe. Harry was _gone,_ as though he’d never been there. As though he was—

Draco took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Surely it didn’t mean what he thought. Surely Potter wasn’t—

He got up and dressed, throwing on an old Slytherin t-shirt and sweats. Harry _couldn’t_ be dead. Harry Potter would not die, not before Draco, not like this.

Draco was already half out his door before the alternative occurred to him.

What if Potter _wasn’t_ dead? What if he’d severed the bond somehow? What if being connected to Draco Malfoy was _unbearable?_

Draco shook his head, shutting the front door behind him and locking it with a spell. He had to see if Harry was alright. It Harry truly wanted him gone, he would be.

But if Harry was dead...

Whoever was responsible would never see the Sun again.

Draco stepped into the crushing darkness.

Harry Potter lived in a penthouse in downtown London, nowhere near any other wizarding dwellings. Draco thought it must be a product of the war, to hide in plain sight, where no pureblood wizard would deign to search. No one would expect the Chosen One, the most celebrated wizard of the century, to live near Muggles.

The Fidelius Charm probably wasn’t even necessary, but it added another layer of security. Only those at top-secret clearance level had been let in on the secret, Kinglsey, Granger, and a few advisers, and Potter had made sure that everyone could be trusted personally.

Technically, Draco Malfoy wasn’t one of those trusted few. But Percy Weasley had left a drawer in his office unlocked the night they all returned, and Draco couldn’t help himself. Potter’s file was _huge,_ full of pictures of Harry and his friends, crime scene photos from various cases over his time as an Auror, photos from the Battle of Hogwarts, the scene of his parents’ deaths.

_I’m not doing this for dishonorable reasons,_ Draco reminded himself. _I just need to make sure he’s okay. ‘You good, Potter? Have a nice life.’ That’s it._

The doorman was terrible at his job, reading a novel so intently that Draco didn’t even bother to do a Disillusionment Charm as he glided by. ‘ _More secure,’_ Draco thought. _Ha._

He rode the lift to the top floor, pacing back and forth, staring at his reflection in the mirror. If Potter was hurt, if there were signs of a struggle, blood… _I’ll kill them,_ he thought. _I’ll kill anyone who touches him. I don’t care what happens to me._

The door to Harry’s apartment was decorated with a Halloween wreath and a roaring lion. Draco snorted, _Typical_.

He gripped the knocker and banged it solidly on the door a few times. Then, he shoved his hands into his pocket, one hand gripping his wand tightly. _I’ll give him thirty seconds to get the door—_

Footsteps approached the door, slow and heavy.

Draco took a deep breath.

And Harry Potter opened the door, barefoot, in pajama pants and a tank top, his wand pointed warily at Draco’s face. “What are you doing here?”

And Draco forgot everything he had been planning to say.

**HARRY**

“What do you want?” Harry asked, after a few seconds of awkward silence. It was three in the morning, and he’d been lying in bed, willing his mind to empty. His muscles were lead, and there was a stabbing pain between his eyes. The paperwork had taken hours, and then Percy had wanted a full debrief. Harry had though the questions would never end.

All he wanted was to sleep.

But here Draco Malfoy was, standing before him.

Harry had hoped to at least get some rest before it came to this. He didn’t know if he had the strength…

And Draco looked, for the first time, at a loss for words.

“You may as well come in,” Harry said finally, opening the door wider. When Draco brushed by him, he shivered.

Harry shut the door and walked across the foyer to the kitchen, waving his wand at one of the kitchen barstools so that it slid out. Harry put fresh water in the kettle and placed it back on the stove, then pointed his wand at it, listening to ensure that it had begun to heat. He heard Draco sit behind the bar, shuffling his chair so that it squeaked on the hardwood floor.

Harry kept busying himself with the dishes. He set out two of his mugs, then reached into the cabinet for tea bags, depositing them carefully in the cups.

“I don’t want anything,” Draco said quietly.

Harry turned around. The confidence was back in Draco’s posture, straight-backed and at ease. He even seemed to be looking _down_ his nose at Harry, the way he always managed to even though he was a couple inches shorter, even though Harry had to tilt _Draco’s_ head up to kiss him…

“What?”

“Just came to see if you were alive,” Draco said, interlacing his fingers. “And you are accounted for, so—” he got to his feet and carefully put the stool back into its proper place, then started toward the door. “Have a good night,” he tossed over this shoulder as he entered the foyer.

Time slowed.

Harry tried to steel himself against the feelings rising up in him, tried to let Draco walk out the door. He knew that it was different this time, that if Draco walked out, he would never come back. What had happened between them in quarantine, the electric moments they’d shared in Vegas, would dissipate into memories, clouded over by cobwebbed nostalgia and circumstance.

This was Harry’s chance to let Draco go.

Wasn’t that what he wanted?

_A clean break,_ Harry thought. _It’s what I want._

_Isn’t it?_

All he had to do was wait five more seconds, and Draco would be his enemy once more.

Three seconds now…

Draco opened the door, casting one last glance Harry’s way. “Aren’t you even going to walk me out? You _were_ raised by Muggles.”

All he had to do was say nothing for two more seconds.

One…

“I asked Hermione to help me do it!” Harry blurted.

Draco stopped. “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about, Potter?” his voice was harsh, ugly. Harry’s heart splintered. He had hurt him. Wounded him, by severing their bond. By allowing him to wake up in the middle of the night, not knowing if Harry was dead…Not knowing what had broken, only that _something_ was.

“The vampire bond.” Harry said. “Hermione helped me make a potion to break it.”

Draco took one step away from the door. He arched an eyebrow, struggling to maintain his bravado. “Why? Afraid I would unduly influence Auror investigations?”

“I asked her to.”

Draco’s body gave a little shake, as through throwing off a blow. “You asked her to.”

“I didn’t want it anymore.”

“I thought you were dead.” Draco said, an edge in his voice, the hurt starting to shine through, like blood seeping through a cloth. “That’s what it felt like. You were just—gone. Is that what you wanted?”

“Yes—”

Draco set his jaw. “Message received.” Draco took a step back toward the door, but Harry moved around the kitchen bar, until he was facing Draco, exactly dueling distance apart. “Tell Granger for me that our deal’s off.” Draco said. “And I’ll see her in the debates.”

Harry held up his hands placatingly. “If you’d just let me explain.” 

“I think I understand quite well,” Draco sneered. “You wanted— _want_ to be rid of me. Well, now you are. Have a nice life, _Potter_.” He turned.

“I did it because I love you!” Harry shouted.

The kettle gave a low whine. Draco turned back around. “What?”

“I thought it would stop. When I severed the bond. I thought that’s all it was—magic and blood, between us. I thought that it would make the feelings go away, but—” and tears were starting at the edge of Harry’s eyes, tears of exhaustion and despair, frustration, emotion that had been building since he’d drank the last of the elixir and felt the bond snap.

He’d waited to return to normal. Waited for that _feeling,_ the one that awakened in him when he’d felt Draco’s presence in Vegas, to subside. _I love you. I love you. I love you—_ his thoughts or Draco’s, passion or blood, magic, all tangled up in each other.

Harry had wanted it to stop.

But even though severing the bond had stopped the forays into Draco’s awareness, even though the niggling consciousness at the edge of his own disappeared, even though he could no longer recall flashes of awareness from a London flat, the smell of the Ministry at dawn, the contempt that oozed off of Draco’s coworkers, even though that was all gone—

The love remained.

Worse, it had intensified, like the sun’s rays at dawn, climbing across the Earth until they painted it golden.

When Draco had come to the door, Harry had been sitting at his kitchen counter, his eyes closed, trying to practice Occlumency.

But how could you block out what had already invaded your mind?

How could you silence a beating heart?

“It still sounds like you wanted me gone,” There was an undercurrent of hurt Draco’s in his voice, and the kettle was now a dull roar. “So I’ll do you a favor.”

“I wanted to stop loving you!” Harry shouted, desperate for him not to leave, in spite of his earlier plans, in spite of what he’d decided when he’d heard the knock at the door and _known_ he had to end it now, before it became impossible

_Please don’t let this break. Please_. “I’ve loved you this whole time. Since quarantine. Since before then, the bathroom in Sixth Year. Since that day on the Hogwarts Express. All I’ve ever done is try to stop loving you. I’ve tried to fight it, to fight _you._ I’ve severed every professional and magical bond between us. And I still _fucking_ love you.”

Draco’s face twisted. “Then _stop_ loving me.”

“I _can’t.”_ Harry was still shouting; he couldn’t help himself, and the kettle shrieked, sure to wake the neighbors, but he only shouted all the louder. “I’m afraid—I am--going to love you for the rest of my life.”

Draco moved closer to him, drawing his wand as he did so. He pressed it into Harry’s neck, right where his pulse throbbed. Harry didn’t flinch, only looked at him, tears rolling down his cheeks.

There was disgust and hatred etched on Draco’s face, and a tenderness so whole and complete that Harry’s knees started to shake. “Potter,” he whispered, and his wand hand shook.

**DRACO**

“Do you want me to make you forget?” Draco whispered, his wand still pressed into Harry’s neck. “That’s what you want, right? You want to stop loving me?” his voice broke at the end, but he managed to control himself, stop the tears from falling, keep his lip from trembling.

Tears were already tracing a path down Harry’s cheeks. “Draco,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”

And Draco didn’t either. He didn’t even know if he meant what he’d said, about making Harry forget. For how _could_ a spell erase nearly a decade of duels, insults thrown in the hallways, fights, spells and breakneck attacks?

How could any other magic measure up to what was happening inside both of them this instant?

“You told me to earn you,” Draco said finally, his voice shaking. “You said I had to win you back, and I was afraid. I thought it was safer to be alone. I pushed you away. I told you that loving me is your destruction, and you came on anyway, so I said—awful things. And I’m—”

He lowered his wand, but Harry didn’t step back. They faced each other, the two young wizards, who for all their differences, all the conflict that separated them, were now in exactly the same place…

“I’m a monster, Harry.” Draco said. “All I do is destroy, but I—I _am_ more. Because I love you, Harry Potter. I think I’ve been in love with you since that very first day on the Hogwarts Express, and I tried so hard to run from it, because I knew it was going to be over for me. I knew the moment I kissed you for the first time, touched you—there is never going to be anyone else, _anything_ else that I would risk everything, burn, die for. And even if you don’t— _want_ me—if you want this all to—stop, I understand. But I—I’m going to fucking love you until the end of my immortal existence. When this city crumbles to dust, I will love you from the ashes. But I understand if I’m not what you want, and I’ll go away—”

Draco was going to say more, but he couldn’t, because Harry had reached between them and _pulled_ Draco in.

And then they were kissing. Kissing like their lives depended on it, like they might disappear if they fell apart. Draco’s fangs caught on the edge of Harry’s lips, and he flicked his wand to stop the kettle as it screamed so that they would be the only noise, inside and out, bursting through his chest, a dam that had suddenly broken, a tidal wave of warmth rushing through him, so intense it brought tears to his eyes.

Draco dropped his wand and pulled Harry closer, and in between kisses Harry was talking, but Draco was delirious with Harry’s scent, the silky feel of his hair in his hands, the hardness of Harry’s body pressing into his own, fitting into him like they were made for each other, for this, that he couldn’t hear anything but the roaring of his own blood in his ears.

It was only when they broke apart so that Harry could pull Draco to the bedroom that he understood what Harry had been saying, like emerging for air after a long time spent underwater. _“Destroy me,”_ Harry whispered. _“And I’ll destroy you. I love you, Draco. I love you, I can say it a thousand times, and it will never be any less true. I don’t want anyone but you. Stay. I love you.”_

Draco was dimly aware that they’d collapsed on the bed, that Harry was kneeling between his legs while he was flat on his back, that they’d lost their shirts, that Draco’s sweats were already pulled down to his ankles. Feverishly, Draco kicked them off and completely pushed Harry off of him, his skin burning with need and _want_ and that same chest-heaving feeling that magnified all of it, casting the moment into sparkling technicolor.

Harry reeled above him, his eyes wide and open, and Draco didn’t know whether it was vampirism or lust that made him grab Harry by the neck and pull his neck to his teeth, sink them in and bite and suck and lick, until Harry was whimpering above him, until Harry’s other hand was down his own pants, his breathing faster and harsher until he came with a groan.

Draco wanted to drink from him longer, he wanted this to last. He wanted to remember this moment for the rest of his life, because love could always bring destruction. And who knew how long either of them would make it in a world fraught with Death Eaters and Dark wizards and politicians, bloodsucking, power hungry monsters who wanted to bleed them dry? Who knew if they would have anything more than this night?

If all they had to count on was this moment, Draco wanted to make it last.

“I love you,” he whispered, and he pulled Harry in for another kiss, his hands gentle, stroking at his neck and his chest, still licking up the traces of blood that trickled from the wound in his neck.

Harry fumbled around on the bed until he found his wand. _“Accio,”_ he whispered, and there was a soft _thump_ as something landed on the mattress.

“What do you want?” Draco whispered. “Baby, please,” he groaned as Harry started kissing down his chest, his lips sucking a mark on his hipbone before grazing, ever so slightly, across his dick. “Harry, _please.”_ Draco bucked his hips up, and Harry relented long enough to grab the lube and start slicking up Draco’s dick, the pressure of his hands warm and even and _not enough, fuck, not enough,_ as the breath caught in Draco’s chest and his stomach tightened.

Finally, Draco snatched the lube out of Harry’s hand and slicked up his fingers. “C’mere,” he whispered, and Harry positioned himself precisely between Draco’s legs like he’d been waiting for this all along, like this was something they’d done a thousand times before, and it seemed that way except for the fucking _riot_ going on in Draco’s body, the way every nerve ending caught alight as Harry clenched around Draco’s fingers, the soft groans Harry let out that made Draco want to die, the way they fit together when Harry finally rode him.

Draco whispered Harry’s name gently, lovingly, in a way he’d never let himself be with anyone, not any of the players he’d picked up at a bar, not any of his girlfriends or boyfriends, there was nothing like this, nothing but this, and it was with tears in his eyes and Harry’s name on his lips that Draco finally came, his vision going blinding white.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. Finally. 
> 
> Wow, y'all. I really started this ready to write about some thinly veiled innuendo and shenanigans as Draco tries to navigate a Covid-19 world as a vampire. Had no idea I'd be writing a love story like this.
> 
> It gets sappy and sweet here, and I'm not sorry at all for it. Thank you again to @tearinmyarc for editing ALL of this, even though we both thought it was gonna be like a quarter of the length it turned out to be.
> 
> Anyway, it's a few months later, and Draco and Harry are about to announce their relationship at a press conference....
> 
> Special thanks to George Lucas for a hell of a romantic line, which I've utilized here as well.

**EPILOGUE**

**HARRY**

“He’s late,” Harry paced anxiously around the Atrium, leading to not a few camera flashes from the assembled press, as well as a sympathetic glance from Hermione. “We were supposed to make our statement at seven. It’s seven thirty.”

“Did you honestly expect Draco Malfoy to show up to his own press conference on time?” Hermione looked thoroughly unperturbed as she examined the sparkling engagement ring on her finger. “I don’t see why you have to make an announcement anyway. It’s none of their business.”

Harry shook his head. “I promised him this. He has a thing for grand gestures.” Inside, though, Harry was agreeing with Hermione. What if this was all a ruse? What if Draco was doing all of this just to humiliate him?

He caught himself. _Draco loves me._ He thought. _And I love him._ What had happened between them that night at Harry’s apartment, and then the next morning, and then at Draco’s apartment, and for months afterwards, sneaking around the Ministry, through the depths of London, and even, one memorable time or two, in Harry’s office—

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Harry had asked Draco the night before, Draco’s head pillowed against his arm. “We don’t have to tell anyone. I don’t mind if you’re not ready.”

Draco ran a hand along the line of Harry’s jaw. “I don’t care what anyone says about us.” He pulled him in for a kiss. “But I’m never going to stop loving you, Harry Potter. It’s time the rest of the world knows it.”

Harry had kissed him back, and in their bed, it had been hard to imagine that anything could separate them.

But the assembled press, the onlookers, Harry and Draco’s exes, ready to pop out of the woodwork any moment….

Harry was saved from his downward spiral by Draco, who suddenly arrived, looking breathless and excited.

**DRACO**

Draco loved to watch Harry when no one was looking, when Harry himself didn’t even notice.

Of course, watching Harry when he _did_ notice was quite an experience as well. Especially watching him as what Draco was doing to him tore him apart, as pleasure crossed the lines of his face, magnified because he had an audience, and Potter was a show-off if he was anything else…

But in these moments, watching Harry pace, talk to Hermione, glance surreptitiously at the photographers and fireplaces that ringed the Atrium, run a hand through his hair so that it got ruffled again…

“You ready?” Luna Lovegood put her hand on his shoulder. “You sure you want this?”

“I don’t back down,” Draco said, even though the fear and adrenaline had him shaking. “Not anymore.”

“Then I’m ready when you are.”

Draco stepped out from behind the columns, and he swelled with pride as he noticed the press’s gasps of surprise and approval. He wore a black and rose brocade tuxedo, adorned with a lion and serpent along the lapels. The suit fit him perfectly, and he could tell that more than a few of those gazes held more than admiration as they traced his path across the floor. 

But watching Harry, ruffled and nervous in his work robes, it was Draco who felt like the breath was stolen from his chest.

He arrived before Harry, his hands delicately behind his back so as to hide their shaking. “You ready for this?” Draco whispered

“What are you doing?” Harry whispered back.

“Change of plans,” Draco said loudly, and he knelt, conjuring a velvet box out of thin air. “If you agree, that is.”

Harry’s mouth was wide open, surprise and adoration lighting his eyes, and Draco knew that even the most magical photo would never capture the wonder blossoming inside his heart.

There were so many things that Draco wanted to say in that moment, so many things he wanted to Harry to know. That Harry had brought happiness to his life when he thought he deserved nothing, that he could be content to simply watch Harry from across a room, and it would be enough, that there was no one else in the world that Draco could imagine waking up next to, that he had been in denial about love being anything but destruction, but he thought their love might just be enough to withstand anything, that he was sure and terrified all at once, and he loved him so fucking much he wasn’t sure his immortal body could contain it…

But when Draco looked into Harry’s eyes, and Harry’s hand grasped at his, locking that velvet box between them, which held nothing more than a simple set of silver rings, engraved with the words that Harry had whispered to Draco the night of his mother’s death, the words that meant more than _I love you,_ because they spoke of something that could never be severed, something that encompassed loving beyond a moment, beyond all time, that would live long after both of them had become dust… nothing more needed to be said.

And when Harry finally said “Yes,” and Draco he got to his feet and pulled Harry into a kiss, it wasn’t the shouts of the photographers, the gasps of Hermione and Ron, or the murmurs Harry made against his mouth, that he heard. He didn’t hear the adoration, or the disapproval, or even Luna’s, calm and steady, _“I declare you bonded for life.”_

He only heard those same words, resonating in his ears, promising more than he could have ever hoped to imagine, more than he deserved, forever…

_“I know.”_


End file.
